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THE MYSTERY STORIES OF 


J. S. FLETCHER 

“Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot, and he never 
goes beyond the bounds of reason in its procedure 
and development. He, moreover, can write the 
English language as a vital means to the end both 
of narrative and description, and he never fails to 
show that he is its master. It is therefore a pleasure 
to read his stories, not merely for their entertaining 
qualities, but also for the agreeable appeal of their 
manner and their style.” 

Boston Evening Transcript . 


v ( 

Rippling Ruby 


By 

J. S. Fletcher / 

Author of “The Charing Cross Mystery,” etc 0 




G.P.Putnam’s Sons 

^ewYork & London 
tDje Knickerbocker press 
1923 

NY 


TZ. 

Fip-v* 

X: 


Copyright, 1923 


by 

J. S. Fletcher 



Made in the United States of America 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.—The General Dealer m 

II. —The Chinaman . .« „ 

III. —My Lady of the Dawn s 

IV. —The Chalk-Pit . . * 

V. —The Old Stage Queen 

VI. —The Three Strange Men . 
VII. —The Cheque for £10,000 . 

VIII. —The First Murder 

IX. —The Midnight Visitor 

X. —Quartervayne 

XI. —The Train Goes Out 

XII. —The Second Murder 

XIII. —Miss Hepple Takes a Hand 

XIV. —The Third Murder 
XV. —The American Tourist 


PAGE 

3 

15 

27 

41 

55 

69 

83 

96 

110 

123 

136 

149 

163 

177 

190 


in 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XVI. —The Admiral’s Folly . 
XVII.— Hands Up ! . 

XVIII.— Hands Out! 

XIX. —The Fourth Murder . 

XX. —The Park Lane Butler 

XXI. —Warning 

XXII. —Marengo Lodge . 
XXIII. —The Burma Ruby 
XXIV. —The Saddling Paddock 


XXV. —The Chinaman Wins 





RIPPLING RUBY 


/ 


* 


* 


RIPPLING RUBY 


CHAPTER I 

THE GENERAL DEALER 

How it came about that on that particular 
Springtide morning I was stranded on the Clarence 
Pier at Portsmouth with, literally, a few pence in 
my pocket, is immaterial to the present purpose; the 
more pertinent fact is that there I was, in that 
miserable predicament, with none to turn to for im¬ 
mediate help, and utterly blank of mind as to what 
was next to be done. I had paid out two of my last 
coppers to obtain entrance to that pier—there was 
a vague notion that I might pick up some porterage 
job there which would bring in a shilling. 

With a shilling I could send a telegram to the only 
man I knew who would be likely to wire me money— 
he was the last resource; for I had already pawned 
my watch and my overcoat, and, hourly expecting 
a remittance which up to then had not arrived, had 
not had the sense to make the application by letter 
which I was now feverishly anxious to make by 
3 


4 


RIPPLING RUBY 


telegraph. There might be someone coming off a 
boat at that pier who would give a shilling to have 
a bag carried—I would undertake the job with 
fervour. But at the end of an hour I was still 
unemployed, and was thinking of trying the railway 
stations; then, very suddenly, the man came on the 
scene who plunged me headlong into action and 
adventure. 

He was coming away from the window of the ticket 
office where you book for Ryde and Cowes and 
Southampton, this man, and he carried a ticket in 
his hand and was clearly unconscious that it was 
there. A big, heavily-built fellow in a dark-blue 
serge suit, topped by a rather sporting sort of over¬ 
coat, he looked to me like a well-to-do publican, or, 
perhaps, a bookmaker; there was that air about him. 
But just then, whatever he was, his great idea was 
certainly to do something or get somewhere in a 
tremendous hurry; his eyes, as he came out on the 
open pier, were all over the place at once, taking in 
the misty coast-line on the opposite side of the 
water, looking up the water itself as if in search 
of the Ryde boat, which even then was churning its 
way towards us, and then glancing first over one 
shoulder and next over the other as if he either 
expected or feared to encounter somebody. 

In his haste, or his nervousness, he raised his 
fat, stub-ended fingers to his chin, and in so doing 
discovered that he was holding a ticket; I will swear 
that until that instant he had forgotten that he had 


THE GENERAL DEALER 


5 


just taken it. But now he hastened to thrust it into 
his waistcoat pocket, and in so doing he encountered 
something else that he had evidently forgotten. His 
fingers came out of the pocket grasping a scrap of 
paper twisted up into what they call a cocked hat. 
And here I made certain that the man was in a state 
of terrible preoccupation, for after staring blankly 
at this discovery he made a sign of vexation and 
looked round him in a fashion which said as plainly 
as possible that he had omitted to do something 
which ought to be done at once. But my wits 
had been sharpened by privation during the last 
two days, and without more ado I stepped up to 
him. 

“Can I take that somewhere for you, sir?” I said, 
pointing to the bit of paper, which he was twisting 
round and round in his fingers. “I think you want it 
delivered to somebody.” 

He started—more nervously than one would have 
expected in such a big fleshy frame—and gave a 
sharp, suspicious, and yet, I fancied, highly relieved 
glance. 

“Eh, what?” he exclaimed, running me over from 
top to toe. “You—wanting a job?” I knew what 
he meant. Outwardly, I was eminently respectable; 
good clothes, good footwear; I was even spotless 
in linen. But the boat was at hand, and I did not 
hesitate. 

“I’d be glad of the chance of earning a few 
shillings,” I answered hurriedly. “Stranded—un- 


6 


RIPPLING RUBY 


expectedly—you understand. I’ll carry your note 
for you—and you can trust me.” He had evidently 
made up his mind to do that, for without another 
word he plunged a hand—there were two or three 
big, be-diamonded rings on its pudgy fingers—into 
his trousers pocket and pulled it out again full of 
gold. And picking out a sovereign with no more 
concern than if it had been a shilling, he thrust it 
into my hand with the bit of folded paper. 

“Look you here, my lad,” he said, confidentially. 
“There’s a name on that paper—Holliment. That’s 
the chap it’s for—Holliment. You get into those 
streets between High Street and the Hard—you 
know? Ask for Holliment—general dealer—any¬ 
body’ll tell you. And give him that. Go now—and 
there’s a quid all to yourself. My boat!—you’ll go 
straight off?” 

“This instant!” said I. “He’ll have it in a few 
minutes. Greatly obliged to you!” 

“Bless you!” he answered, with a queer sort of 
grin. “Ditto!” 

He made for the boat, and without a backward 
glance I hurried off that pier, lighter of heart than 
I had been for forty-eight hours. A sovereign!—• 
for ten minutes’ walk. I went away towards High 
Street feeling as if the Bank of England had sud¬ 
denly become my sole property. Turning a corner, 
and chancing to look seaward I saw the smoke of 
the steamer rolling away in the sharp breeze—my 
man was there, scudding gaily across the water. 


THE GENERAL DEALER 


7 


Whither?—and why in such a hurry!—in so much 
of a hurry, indeed, that he had forgotten to send the 
scrap of paper which was now in my pocket—a 
missive that was evidently of so much importance 
that he was glad to have it carried at any cost. 
Sharpened in perception as I was by hunger (for 
I had had no breakfast, and had gone very short 
the day before), I knew that the man was intensely 
relieved to get rid of that note and parted with his 
sovereign right willingly. 

I began to get curious about this twisted, crumpled 
scrap of paper. Who was Holliment? What was 
this highly important message? What did the whole 
thing mean? Before I came to High Street, my in¬ 
quisitiveness got the better of me; I pulled out the 
cocked hat and turned it over two or three times. 
I saw then that it was a piece of paper hurriedly 
torn out of a cheap account-book—a poor quality 
paper, the first stuff that had lain to hand. And I 
felt no great compunction, things being as they were, 
in unwrapping it and looking at whatever might be 
written inside—there was already a spice of mystery 
about this adventure, and wherever there is mystery 
there is danger; I wanted to know what I was in 
for, in some degree. 

Standing for a second in the open street, I read 
all that was written. Two words, heavily under¬ 
scored :— 


CLEAN AWAY 


8 


RIPPLING RUBY 


There was nothing else. No name; no address; 
nothing. I was as wise as ever. So folding the torn 
leaf into its original lines, I slipped it into 
my pocket again, and crossing the High Street, 
plunged into the slums which lie between it and the 
Hard. 

There are some queer places in Portsmouth, and 
it seemed to me that Holliment, whoever he was, 
lived in one of the queerest. It was quite evident, 
however, that he was known pretty well, and after 
various turnings to right and turnings to left, I 
saw his name in dirty white letters on a black sign 
which formed one of the chief landmarks in a 
peculiarly squalid street. The sign was displayed 
above the windows of a low-roofed, one-storied place, 
half shop, half shed; this was flanked by a much 
higher, tower-like erection which I took to be an old 
sail-loft; the name was on that, too, in smaller letters 
on a smaller signboard. 

In the wall of the lower building was a double 
door, wide open to the street, and when I walked 
inside it I saw at once that Holliment’s business of 
general dealer was a wide and various one, for I 
never set eyes on such a collection of ancient 
stuff as that which he had gathered about him; the 
place was a scrap-heap, a dumping ground of all 
sorts of rubbish, from once gaily-coloured figure¬ 
heads to rusty nails. 

The only thing that looked at all modern was a 
freshly-painted placard hung on the window of a 


THE GENERAL DEALER 


sort of office; it announced that orders for coal were 
taken there, and gave a list of current prices. But 
just then there was no one in this office, nor in the 
gloom of the shed-like, much-cumbered place, and I 
had waited and rapped for some minutes before a 
man came out of the shadows and approached me— 
a short, fattish, furtive-eyed man, in his shirt-sleeves, 
who obviously wondered what I was after. 

I pulled out the note. 

“Mr. Holliment ?” I asked. 

“That’s me, sir,” replied the man. 

“A gentleman whom I met on the Clarence Pier, 
who was in a hurry to catch the boat, asked me to 
give this to you,” I continued. “I came straight to 
you with it; he seemed anxious that you should have 
it at once.” 

I placed the note in his very dirty hands and stood 
by watching him narrowly as he somewhat clumsily 
opened it. I should say that he was ordinarily a 
man who could keep a compressed countenance, con¬ 
cealing his feelings very well, but on this occasion 
he was obviously taken too sharply to hide anything. 
His puffy face turned the colour of a dead thing 
—it made me think for the instant of those calves’- 
heads that lie on the butchers’ stalls—and when a 
shade of life came back to it, it was a grey dull shade. 
His hands shook suddenly, and he only half-checked 
an exclamation. And at that I affected to see 
nothing, turning away. But suddenly I felt that 
he was regarding me. 


10 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Do you know him who gave you this ?” he asked 
quickly. 

“Not at all,” said I. “Stranger to me—and I 
to him. The fact is, I was looking for a job, and 
I saw he wanted that taken somewhere, so I offered 
to take it.” 

“He give you anything?” he inquired, looking me 
over, pretty much as the other man had done. 

“If you want to know,” I answered, “he did! He 
gave me a sovereign.” 

No surprise came into his face. Instead, he 
suddenly made a movement towards his coat, which 
hung on a nail close by. He began shuffling into it. 

“Look here!” he said. “I’ve got to go out—* 
business! Over that!” He pointed to the scrap of 
paper, which he had crumpled up and flung away on 
the floor. “Some hours I’ve got to be out—can’t 
help it. You say you were looking for a job? Stop 
here and give an eye to things till I come back—to¬ 
night it’ll be. I’ll give you another quid—and there’s 
nothing to do.” 

“What is there to do ?” I asked. “Can I do it ?” 

“There’s nothing to do—but stick here,” he re¬ 
sponded quickly. “Keeping an eye on things. If 
anybody comes for any of this old stuff, let ’em have 
what they want and take their names and what 
they’ve got. If anybody orders coal, write it down 
in that book. I’ll be back about six or seven, and 
you shall have your money.” 

I hesitated a bare second—after all, the extra 


THE GENERAL DEALER 


11 


sovereign was worth a few hours of that sort of 
thing. 

“All right,” I said. “I’ll stop till you come back. 
Rut, there’s one thing.” 

“Well?” said he, edging away towards the door 
in his obvious impatience. “What?” 

“Dinner!” said I. “I shall want it.” 

“That’s all right,” he replied. “A man brings 
mine at one, sharp—take that. You’ll find it’ll do 
you. Well, then, till this evening.” 

“I’ll see to things,” I assured him. 

He made for the door without another word— 
but before he went through it and into the street, 
he looked cautiously round the door-posts, up and 
down; there was that in his action which assured me 
that he was keenly anxious. Then he shot off, and 
I, too, looked out, to see whither he went. It was 
not raining, but he slunk rapidly along the side of 
the wall, close to it, as if rain had been coming down 
cats-and-dogs, and with his head bent, his slouch hat 
pulled over his eyes, and his whole attitude that 
of a man who is running away. 

Suddenly he shot into one of those narrow alleys 
of which there are so many thereabouts, and so I 
saw him no longer. But I had seen enough to con¬ 
vince me that if the sender of the mysterious message 
was in a state of high nervousness, its recipient was 
in another of something very like fright, and I 
wondered why. 

What had happened that morning in the affairs of 


12 


RIPPLING RUBY 


these two men to make both hasten off somewhere in 
desperately hurried fashion? Something, evidently 
—but all the speculation in the world would not tell 
me what. Meanwhile there I was, in charge of an 
ancient rubbish store, the afternoon to get over, and 
another sovereign to anticipate. That, anyway, 
odd as the adventure seemed, was preferable to hang¬ 
ing about Portsmouth wondering what I was to do 
when my first sovereign was spent. 

It was now past noon, and between then and one ‘jj 
o’clock nothing whatever happened. I sat down in 
the little office and read the newspaper. No cus- > 
tomers came; nobody came. But at precisely one i 
o’clock in walked an individual who was obviously the 
potman of some adjacent hostelry. He carried a 
tray, whereon, beneath a cloth, were sundry dishes, 
covered with tin plates, a half-loaf of crusty bread, 
and a jug of foaming ale. A good smell came from 
his tray, and I silently blessed it and him. He stared 
at me in surprise, and I hastened to relieve his 
anxieties. 

“Mr. Holliment’s away for this afternoon,” I 
said. “He’s left me in charge, and I’m to have his 
dinner.” 

“That’s all right,” he answered, and set his tray 
on a neighbouring table, “and a good un it is, and 
here’s wishing you a proper appetite.” 

“Same to you,” I responded politely. 

He grinned understanding^ and went off, and I 
had the cloth and the tin cover whipped away before 






THE GENERAL DEALER 


13 


the sound of his big feet had died out on the pave¬ 
ment. Clearly, I thought, Mr. Holliment had a very 
comfortable notion of a homely dinner! There was 
roast loin of pork, with apple sauce, potatoes, and 
greens; there was plum pie and custard; there was 
a mighty wedge of good cheese. And there was the 
ale—a whole jug of prime stuff, with a head on it. 

I felt like a new man when I had made an end of 
Holliment’s dinner. After all, the adventure was 
turning out well for me. I had not fared so sumptu¬ 
ously for many a day, and I had a sovereign in my 
pocket and another in prospect. I should be able to 
sleep in a decent lodging that night, and next day to 
journey onward to London by rail instead of tramp¬ 
ing the highway. Everything, in fact, looked quite 
rosy just then, and, finding a box of very decent 
cigars on the office desk, I lighted one and prepared 
to face the business requirements of the afternoon 
with complacency and patience. 

By the time I had finished that cigar I was be¬ 
ginning to think that for all practical purposes 
Holliment might just as well have locked up his place 
of business as have left me or anyone else in charge 
of it. It was then past two o’clock, and not a soul 
had crossed the threshold since Holliment stepped 
over it—always saving the welcome potman. I was 
beginning to get bored. And in order to amuse my¬ 
self I took a cast round the place, examining it and 
its contents. 

The low, shed-like erection and its piles of old 



14j 


RIPPLING RUBY 


iron, coils of ropes, heaps of rubbish I took in at a 
glance; there was nothing much there to interest me. 
But the taller building at the side had more of 
interest. It turned out to be a high, gloom-filled 
place, not unlike the interior of a church tower, and 
just about as badly lighted. Whatever purpose it 
had served I could not make out; its floor was lit¬ 
tered with more rubbish, or what seemed so to me, 
and its walls were thick with dust and great festoons 
of cobwebs. Around them, beginning in one corner 
and going in flights and landings across and around 
the others, was a narrow, rickety stair, which wound 
far away into the thick gloom at the extreme top. 
Why any stair should be there at all I could not 
make out; there were no doorways in the three or 
four landings, and no signs that there had once been 
floorings between the pavement on which I stood and 
the unceilinged roof so high above me. 

But when, after some time, my sight had grown 
accustomed to the gloom, I made out that right 
away at the head of the stair, just beneath the head 
of the rough wall and the beginning of the tiles, there 
was a door, or at any rate an opening—a black, 
cavernous-looking place. 

And I was wondering what lay behind it, and 
whence it might lead, when I heard somebody come 
into the shop, and, after beating on the floor, call 
loudly for its proprietor. 


CHAPTER II 


THE CHINAMAN 

This was the first customer I had seen—a man 
who wanted some old iron, and had a small cart out¬ 
side whereon to carry it away. He helped himself 
to what he wanted when I had explained matters to 
him, and remarking that his name was Toller, and 
that Mr. Holliment knew him well enough, carried 
out his stuff, and went away with it. This broke the 
ice—other folk began to drop in. They all seemed 
to know their way about, and were all ready to men¬ 
tion their names; what puzzled me about them was 
whatever they meant to do with the things they 
picked out and took away. 

Nobody seemed at all surprised to find Holliment 
out; nobody paid any particular attention to me as 
his representative. I came to the conclusion that 
this was a queer sort of business. But during the 
afternoon I did some trade in coal; one man came in 
and ordered a truckload; another wanted four tons; 
before the dusk came on I had written down memo¬ 
randa concerning coal delivery which represented a 
considerable amount of money. So the time passed, 
and at half-past four in walked the friendly potman, 
15 


16 


RIPPLING RUBY 


armed with yet another tray. A capacious pot of 
tea this time, piping hot, flanked by another tin dish, 
wherein was a mountain of buttered toast. Once 
more I was convinced that Holliment knew how to 
make himself comfortable. 

The potman carried away the dinner things; he 
informed me, while he put them together, that he 
came from the Admiral Hawke, round the corner, 
and asked if I was going to be where I was when 
to-morrow came, because, if so, there was going to 
be roast beef on tab, and he would see that I had a 
good helping. I told him that, as far as I was 
aware, Mr. Holliment would shortly be back and my 
temporary engagement over, but, I added, if I was 
still in Portsmouth at noon next day I would take 
care to visit the Admiral Hawke and dine there, if 
that was possible. He answered that it was quite 
possible: there was a half-crown ordinary there at 
one o’clock, whereat they did people far better than 
at any of the hotels where the nobs went. 

He went off then with his jingling tray and tins, 
and I drank tea and ate hot buttered toast in great 
contentment. And just after that it began to grow 
first dusk and then dark, and through the open 
double-door of the shop I saw lights begin to shine 
out across the street, and through a vista between 
the opposite houses, where there was a glimpse of 
the harbour and of the Gosport shore in the distance, 
I caught the gleam of other lights, red and green 
and yellow, that came out on the spars of passing 


THE CHINAMAN 


17 


ships. Why, I do not exactly know, but the sight 
of those lights somehow made me begin to wish that 
Holliment would return, give me the reward of my 
vigil, and let me go about my business. 

There was a lamp on the rough desk in the bit of 
an office, and as soon as I had finished the tea and 
toast I lighted it—the darkness was getting a bit 
too marked. The draught from the door on the 
street caused the lamp to smoke. I went over to 
shut it. Just then a lad came along shouting the 
five o’clock edition of the newspaper; I bought a 
copy and went back to the office, and as I had no 
tobacco of my own I helped myself to another of 
Holliment’s cigars, and sat down in a rickety elbow 
chair to read and smoke. 

Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes went by in this 
fashion—and then, chancing to look over the top 
of the newspaper, and in the direction of the dirty 
window-panes which gave on the street, I saw, close- 
pressed against the glass, the flat nose and slant eyes 
of a yellow-checked Chinaman. 

This unholy and discomforting vision faded out 
of sight as suddenly as it had come into it—so sud¬ 
denly, indeed, that for the instant I wondered if the 
whole thing was not hallucination. But on the next 
I was out of that office and at the door of the shop, 
staring at the place where the Chinaman ought to 
have been. He was not there; there was no one there 
—the street at that point was empty. I did not see 
even the whisk of a garment disappearing round the 


18 


RIPPLING RUBY 


corner of the narrow alley into which Holliment 
had slunk a few hours before. All I saw was' the 
lights, feeble and obscure, along the squalid street, 
and the passing of other lights, green and red, 
across a bit of dark water. 

I went back to the office and the friendliness of 
its lamp, conscious that my heart was beating at a 
faster rate than it should have done. I was fright¬ 
ened. It would have been odd if I had not been 
frightened—startled, at any rate. What was that 
parchment-faced Chink after? Why did he peep in 
there, through a corner of the window, instead of 
entering the shop? The mere sensation of being 
overlooked was unpleasant enough, but there had 
been that in the dark, slanting eyes which made me 
certain that their owner was spying. Why ? Whom 
did he want? Holliment, of course. I wished 
heartily that Holliment would come. To be left 
there, in that gloomy hole of a place, with evil-faced 
Easterns looking in upon me, was what I had not 
bargained for. And, careless about possible cus¬ 
tomers, I presently went back to the street door 
and, after examining its fastenings, drew a big bolt 
into place. Holliment could knock when he came; 
until then, I was determined that no foot should 
cross the dirty threshold. 

There was a blind above the window through which 
the Chinaman had looked, and when I went back to 
the office I took hold of its cord to draw it down. 
The whole thing came away in my hand, rotten with 



THE CHINAMAN 


19 


age and disuse. But I was going to have no more 
faces at the window, and finding some tacks and 
a hammer, I got up on Holliment’s desk and nailed 
the blind to the casement, shutting out the darkness 
and the spits of light in the opposite houses. That 
done, I attempted to read the paper again. 

I had not read many lines when I heard a sound— 
gentle, but palpable—outside the door which I had 
just barred. At that, I stole across the floor and 
listened. All was still at first, but at last I heard 
movements outside—soft, cat’s-foot movements. 
And then the handle of the door was turned, quietly, 
slowly; I saw the brass knob within moving. But 
whoever it was that had his hand on the outer knob 
soon realised that the place was now secured against 
him, and presently I heard the stealthy footsteps 
move off. The Chinaman again, without a doubt. 

I was by that time fully disposed to go away, 
leaving this sort of thing to go on without me; I 
had had enough of it. But I did not like to go 
before handing over the place to its owner; also, I 
saw no way of locking the street door from the out¬ 
side—if there was a key, Holliment evidently had 
it in his pocket. It would scarcely do to leave the 
place unprotected; moreover, I particularly wanted 
my sovereign. And, after all, the man had said that 
he would be back that evening, and it was already 
well past six o’clock. 

I sat down again, and again tried to read. That 
was poor work; the minutes dragged. But, at last, 


20 


RIPPLING RUBY 


I heard seven striking from the neighbouring clocks, 
and almost immediately afterwards I heard some¬ 
thing else—a sound of slow, stealthy movement in 
the tower-like building at the side of the shop. Even 
as I caught it, it ceased; a minute or two went by, 
I heard it again—again it ceased. That there were 
rats in that place I had no doubt, but something in 
that muffled sound made me certain that it came 
from a human being. 

Rather than sit there, listening and wondering, 
I picked up the lamp and went into the place. The 
lamp was about as effective as a single match lighted 
in a cavern; it showed a small area at my feet, and 
kept the rest of the high space above me in dark¬ 
ness. Of course, I heard and saw nothing. But I 
was absolutely certain that there was something or 
somebody there. And when I went back to the office 
I had made up my mind, if Holliment had not come 
back when the town clocks next struck, I was going. 

The events of the last two or three days—the 
anxiety consequent upon being stranded, the un¬ 
certainty of my prospects—these things had not 
improved the state of my nerves, and I felt that if 
I stopped much longer in that place, imagining a 
Chinaman prowling around, I should become a good 
deal more of a wreck than I wanted to be. It was 
not worth the sovereign which I should probably 
lose by going away—nevertheless, going I was unless 
Holliment turned up suddenly. 

I heard no more of the movements in the big 


THE CHINAMAN 


21 


building, and the time went on slowly until the first 
stroke of eight broke the prevalent silence. I got 
out of my chair at that, flung away the newspaper, 
and seized a pencil and a scrap of paper; I was 
going to leave a note on the desk telling Holliment 
that I could not remain longer. I was utterly in¬ 
different by that time as to whether he found the 
note that night or next morning; indifferent, too, 
to my sovereign. I wanted to get out and breathe 
free air. But before I had scribbled two lines I 
heard a low, sibilant signal, and jumping round as 
if I had been shot, saw the man I was writing to 
standing in the gloom of the shop, six yards away, 
outside the office door, beckoning. How he had got 
there without my being aware of his entrance I did 
not stop to think, but I was unfeignedly glad to see 
him, and stepped almost joyfully in his direction. 
He put up his hand, unmistakably in warning. 

“Pull that blind down in there!” he whispered. 
“Right down so that no one can see in!” 

“It is down,” I answered. “Been down since six 
o’clock.” 

“Well, turn that lamp down, too,” he went on. 
“And bar that door on the street—quick.” 

“That’s been barred since six o’clock, too,” I said, 
laying a finger on the regulator of the lamp. “It’s 
safe enough.” 

He waited until the light had gone down to a pale 
gleam, just clear enough to let us see each other’s 
faces, and then, keeping himself in the shadow, he 


22 


RIPPLING RUBY 


came across the floor and into a corner of the office, 
giving me a narrow, searching glance. 

“Anybody been?” he asked, significantly. 

I pointed to the memoranda which I had prepared 
and laid on the desk. 

“All down there,” I answered. “That’s the busi- 
nes part of it.” 

There was a purposeful significance in my reply, 
and he was quick to see it. 

“And—what else?” he said, anxiously. “Any¬ 
thing—not business?” 

“I don’t know whether it’s business or not, Mr. 
Holliment,” I replied, “but after it got dark, and be¬ 
fore I’d fastened up that blind, I chanced to look at 
the window there, and I saw, his ugly face pressed 
close against it, a Chinaman.” 

I was watching him. For the second time that 
day I saw his face go pasty-white—only, as far as 
I could make out in that dim light, this time it was 
whiter than before—and he caught his breath in 
something like a sob. 

“A—a Chinaman!” he whispered. “You’re— 

certain ?” 

“Never more certain of anything,” I retorted. 
“Dead certain!” 

“Well?” he asked, with an obvious effort. 

“After that—when I’d drawn this blind and bolted 
the outer door—I heard stealthy footsteps outside, 
and saw someone try the handle,” I continued. 
“Since then—some time ago—I heard queer sounds 


THE CHINAMAN 


23 


in that tower-place of yours, and I went in and saw 
nothing. Queer doings, Mr. Holliment!” 

He had his hands in front of him, clasped across 
his chest, and I noticed that his fingers were working 
one within the other. If my nerves had been touched 
a bit, his were undoubtedly ragged. 

“Yes,” he assented, with a nod. “You—you won’t 
understand-” 

“Don’t understand anything, and don’t want to, 
Mr. Holliment,” I interrupted. “But I’d be obliged 
if you’d give the sovereign you promised me and 
let me go. I want to be off.” 

He pulled out money from his pocket at once, 
and to my surprise gave me a couple of sovereigns, 
pushing them at me along the desk with a gesture 
which clearly meant that I was heartily welcome to 
them. 

“Yes,” he said, half abstractedly, “yes, of course 
you’ll be wanting to go. But—not through that 
door on the street! It would be as much as your 
life—anybody’s life’s—worth to go out of that door 
to-night.” 

I was glad afterwards that he said that. It 
pulled me together; steadied my nerves. Instead 
of being confronted by vague doubts and surmises, 
I now knew that there was something really danger¬ 
ous in front, and my hand was steady enough as I 
picked up and pocketed the two sovereigns. 

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m much obliged. You’ll 
find all particulars there of what’s been done. But 



24 


RIPPLING RUBY 


—the rest of it, Mr. Holliment? What’s it all 
about ?” 

All this time I could see that his ears were on the 
alert. The man was listening, and for all he was 
worth; and when he spoke again, it was in still lower 
tones. 

“I said—you wouldn’t understand,” he answered. 
“But—I’ll tell you this much. That note you 
brought me this morning—you’d get it from a pal 
of mine; a big, good-looking fellow? To be sure— 
and it was a warning. Him and me—we’re in dan¬ 
ger. There’s that broke loose here in Portsmouth 
that wants to get its own back—you understand.” 

“The Chinaman!” I suggested. 

“Well, he’s part of it, though I didn’t exactly 
expect to hear that he’d got to work,” he replied. 
“Part of it!—there’s more than him in it. Clear 
out?—that’s the thing while this lot is anywhere 
about. Quartervayne—the man you saw—he’ll have 
put himself away in a quiet spot across the water, 
and so shall I, when we’re out of this. Mind you.— 
I’ve been off all the time since you came in—yes, but 
I haven’t been a hundred yards away! Lying doggo 
—safe spot—up the street. And—we must get out, 
now!” 

“How did you get in?” I asked. 

“Same way we’ll get out,” he answered. “Not 
through that street door, you may bet! I don’t 
want a knife thrust between my ribs. Look here— 
turn up that lamp! Leave it burning. There’s not 


THE CHINAMAN 


25 


much oil in it, and it’ll burn itself out. If we leave 
it burning they’ll think we’re—at least that I’m— 
still here. And now, you follow me.” 

He slipped out into the shadows of the shop again, 
motioning me to follow him across to the tower-like 
place at the side. Within that, he paused, gripping 
my arm. There was some light there from a street- 
lamp outside; enough, at any rate, to show us the 
staircase which I had looked at during the after¬ 
noon. He pointed to it, and to the darkness high 
above its final landing. 

“Way out there—up that stair—through door at 
top—and into the next house, which is empty,” he 
whispered. “But the stair—not safe for two! 
Rotten!—but it’ll bear one at a time; I came down 
it, just now. I’ll go first—when I get to the top 
I’ll whistle—then you come up. Bear well to the 
wall—keep your weight that side, see? All safe, 
then.” 

“I don’t want to break my neck, Mr. Holliment,” 
I remarked. “Is there no other way—no back en¬ 
trance?” 

“Aye, with a knife the other side of it!” he 
said. Come on—it’s safe enough. I’m twice your 
weight!” 

Suddenly he let go of my arm and I made out that 
he twisted his hand round to his hips. The next in¬ 
stant I heard a click of something metallic. 

“What’s that?” I demanded. 

“Revolver!” he whispered, “not that I think it’ll 


26 


RIPPLING RUBY 


be wanted, but—well, here goes! Keep off that 
stair till I whistle.” 

He slipped from my side and vanished into the 
shadows; a second later I heard him cautiously 
stealing up the staircase. The sounds that he made, 
slight as they were, reminded me of what I had 
heard in that place earlier in the evening. He must 
have been light-footed, however, for they were very 
slight sounds indeed, and when he reached the first 
landing they died away altogether—doubtless the 
dust lay thick as a carpet up there. 

Once, as he crossed another landing, I caught a 
glimpse of him—a beam of light fell across the wall 
just there from the gas-lamp outside. He was 
stealing forward, close to the wall, as he had bade me 
do, and there was now but another flight of the stair 
for him to scale before reaching the dark doorway 
just beneath the first round of the unceilinged roof; 
I began to nerve myself to follow him. 

And then, just as I groped for and laid a hand 
on the worm-eaten balusters at the foot of the stair, 
and edged away from them towards the wall, there 
came a knocking at the street door, the sound of 
which set my nerves vibrating like suddenly struck 
fiddle-strings. 



CHAPTER III 


MY LADY OF THE DAWN 

There was a certain peculiarity about that 
knocking. It was not a summons delivered on a door 
panel by one insistent fist, but by several—a regular 
tattoo of not-to-be-denied knuckles. Holliment 
heard it as well as I, and in the middle of it he raised 
his voice, hitherto muffled, to something very like a 
shout. 

“Come on, man!” he called. “Come on—sharp! 
Keep to the wall—close!” 

That was his second or third warning about the 
wall, and you may be sure that I took good care, 
even in that critical moment, not to disregard it. 
But the wall in itself was a loathsome thing where¬ 
with to make so intimate an acquaintance. It was 
one of those walls which feel—if you are really forced 
to lay a hand on them—as if the dust and grime of 
ages have accumulated on their surfaces; it was thick 
with such accretions, and as I hastily rounded its 
various twistings, slinking through the gloom like 
a runaway thief, and always fearful of feeling the 
unmistakably rotten fabric of the old stairway sud¬ 
denly collapse beneath me, I felt festoons of cob- 
27 


28 


RIPPLING RUBY 


webs catching my shoulders, and what may have been 
live things Slithering across my face and around 
my fingers. 

The beating on the door acted as a spur that 
sharpened with every step I took, for there was 
something sinister, if not actually murderous in its 
suggestion, and up and up I went—up, until, panting 
and nerve-wracked at the whole thing, I joined Holli- 
ment on the topmost landing, and at that instant 
the knocking ceased and just as suddenly as it had 
ceased, a new sound broke on us, like to scare the 
remaining wits out of our heads, and that sound 
came from the bursting-in of the street door. 

I have already said that we had left a lamp burn¬ 
ing in the shabby little office, its wick well turned 
up, and that there was a gas-lamp somewhere out¬ 
side which threw a certain amount of light through 
the window, dirty though it was, of the lower part 
of the tower. In these lights Holliment and I, gaz¬ 
ing anxiously from our high perch into the depths 
beneath, saw a confused gang of three, perhaps four, 
perhaps five, or there may have been six, rush across 
the space between the burst-in door and the arched 
doorway between tower and back shop, pretty much 
as hounds burst in on a pulled-down fox. 

From what I remember of them, they were proba¬ 
bly loafers and street-corner scum, bribed to take 
a hand in a raid on the place, fellows with their 
greasy caps well pulled down over their eyes, and 
such like. I am not sure that I did not catch the 


MY LADY OF THE DAWN 


29 


gleam of a knife here and there as they crossed and 
re-crossed the threads of light. No doubt Holli- 
ment saw all that I did—but there was one thing 
that each saw, without any doubt. 

As the mob swept from amidst the piles of old 
rubbish into the tower, a shaft of yellow light fell 
right on the face of a Chinaman. And at the sight, 
and before I could lay a finger on his arm to stop 
him, Holliment whipped out his revolver and fired 
once, twice, thrice into the middle of our pursuers. 

Two cries followed on that—one was a sharp 
yelp of pain, such as anyone might let out who is 
stung by a wasp; the other was more of a rising 
groan. But I am sure that none of the men fell, and 
just as I had expected, the discharge of these shots, 
instead of checking the pursuit, only accelerated 
it. For a second we had a vision of upturned faces, 
in the next the whole pack made for the old stairway 
and came storming up it. I heard the tramp and 
rush of their feet; that was plain enough. But 
under it, or over it, or somehow, I heard Holli¬ 
ment laugh, at my shoulder. It was not a nice 
laugh; something in the sound of it made me more 
afraid than anything that had happened up to then, 
and I edged away from him, as, in the very instant 
wherein he laughed, he suddenly seized my arm in 
a tight, trembling grip. 

It was at that instant, too, that the old stair 
collapsed. I suppose the men were by that time 
half way up it, storming ahead with shouts of fury. 


30 


RIPPLING RUBY 


It suddenly went, with a crashing tearing-to-pieces 
of rotten timber and rusty bolts, and in a mighty 
cloud of choking dust, and in that instant also, I 
was conscious that Holliment dragged me through 
some doorway immediately behind us, and that we 
stood, in utter darkness, on sound, safe footing. 

But Holliment, evidently, was not minded to 
allow us to linger; evidently, too, he could either see 
in the dark, or he knew every inch of the region into 
which he had led me. Amidst the babel of cries, 
groans, imprecations that came up from beneath 
the clouds of dust he tightened his grip on my arm 
and got his lips to my ear. 

“Come on!” he whispered. “That lot’s settled! 
Come on!—step out and don’t be afraid. Safe 
enough, now—straight down this floor—then down¬ 
stairs—a drink! God!—I hope some of ’em have 
broken their necks, and I wish they all had! Come 
on!” 

I let him steer me through the darkness, across 
the floor, refreshingly solid after that rotten stair¬ 
case, giving myself up to his guidance with a sort 
of feeling that anything was better than what we 
had just been through. 

He paused after going some dozen steps; released 
my arm, opened a door, got me through it, released 
me again, and suddenly turned on the light of a bull’s 
eye lamp, which, I suppose, he had carried all the 
time in his pocket. And I saw then that we stood 
at the head of a staircase such as you may see in 


MY LADY OF THE DAWN 


31 


any house. Its very ordinariness was as welcome as 
its shabbiness was obvious. 

Holliment’s first action was to shoot a couple of 
heavy bolts across the door through which we had 
just passed; his second to raise his disengaged hand 
and draw the cuff of his sleeve across his forehead. 
Something in his action constrained me to follow 
his example; I found then that my face was stream¬ 
ing with sweat—big, heavy drops, too—and at the 
same moment I realised that my tongue not only felt 
too big for my mouth, but that it was dry and 
cracked as ancient leather. We looked at each 
other significantly; he shook his head, but I man¬ 
aged to croak out a word or two. 

“You said—a drink?” I rasped at him. “Drink 

_J5 

He pointed down the stair and began to descend, 
motioning me to follow. 

“All right—drink down here,” he said shakily, 
over his shoulder. “All safe, this. Empty house— 
my property, too. Laid doggo down here all day. 
Come! God alive!—if that lot had broken in on 
us before we got up that old stair! Kingdom come 
by this time for both of us ! But—safe now. Safe— 
as safe can be.” 

We went down I don’t know how many flights of 
stairs—a great many. We passed several landings ; 
many doors. Some of the doors were shut; some 
were open. Where a door was open, an empty, 
cavernous chamber revealed itself. Shaking as I 



32 


RIPPLING RUBY 


was, I contrived to keep my eyes about me and to 
note what I saw. 

An old house, this; once a good house; carved 
balustrades; moulded ceilings; evidence of archi¬ 
tectural taste; some old, prosperous merchant’s 
house once upon a time, no doubt. And no doubt, 
either, that nobody had lived in it for years and 
years; fifty, sixty, seventy years—wrack, ruin, dirt, 
dust, everywhere. Silent, too, with the sort of silence 
that you never find but in deserted houses, and a 
smell about it like that you get in deep vaults under 
some old church. We got at last into what was 
evidently the hall of the house, a big, gloomy place 
—that is, as far as I could see, for there Holliment 
managed his bull’s eye more warily than ever, and 
I had but imperfect glimpses of my surroundings. 

Once more he stopped before a door, unlocked it, 
and motioned me to pass through. More stairs, 
stairs evidently leading to a basement, confronted 
us, but there was a light at the foot, where an open 
door showed itself. And in that light I saw, within 
this door, the edge of a warm-coloured carpet, red, 
I think, but anyway comfortable, domestic—surely 
an odd and surprising thing to see in that veritable 
solitude of a house! A moment later—after more 
locking and barring of that last door—we were at 
the foot of this stairway, and there, to my infinite 
wonder, was a snug and appealing parlour or sitting- 
room, well furnished with good old stuff, and having 
in its grate a brightly burning fire. 


MY LADY OF THE DAWN 


83 


It was not until I saw the gleam of that fire that I 
realised that I was cold—cold, utterly cold in a queer 
sort of way. Holliment may have felt the same 
sensation; at any rate, as soon as he had set down 
his bull’s eye and had turned up the wick of a 
moderator lamp that stood on the table, he went 
straight to a corner cupboard, took out a bottle and 
glasses, and turning, motioned me to hand over a 
jug of water that he indicated on the sideboard. I 
left it to him to mix the drinks; all that I cared 
about at that moment was to get one, and to get 
it strong. And I got it—strong enough. 

He gave a deep sigh when he had drained half 
the contents of his tumbler and taken the glass from 
his lips, and when he had sighed he shook his head 
at me, and then nodded at the bottle. 

“Brandy!” he said. “A matter that I scarcely 
ever touch—whisky’s my tipple, and not over much 
of that—I’m an abstemious man, on principle. But 
when you’ve had a bit of an experience like that, 
brandy is the thing! I could just do with this— 
and so could you, my lad! Feel better?” 

“So much better, Mr. Holliment,” I answered, 
having swigged off as much of the liquor as he had, 
“so much better that I’m bold enough to ask you— 
was it ten minutes since or a hundred years ago?— 
that I asked you before? What’s it all about?” 

“And I answer as before, my lad,” he replied, 
quite good-humouredly, “you wouldn’t understand. 
But I’m sorry you chanced to get drawn into it. 


34 


RIPPLING RUBY 


However, you’re safe. We’re both safe—here. But 
—only just in time. However, again—we are safe! 
With whole skins, too!” 

I drank off the rest of the brandy and set down 
the glass. 

“Then you’ll let me go, now, Mr. Holliment?” I 
said. “I daresay you know a safe way out of this 
house, and-” 

He stared at me as if I had proposed some utterly 
fantastic and impossible thing, and I saw at once that 
I was condemned already to some indefinite detention. 

“Safe w r ay out of this house!” he repeated. 
“There’s no safe way out of this house, my lad, for 
some hours, if for the rest of the night! You can 
lay your last penny on that! Be content!—as I said, 
we’re safe here. But outside-!” 

He made a significant grimace, at the same time 
jerking out his disengaged hand in a fashion which 
suggested a knife-thrust. And again he drank, and 
it seemed to me that for the second time the glass 
rattled a little against his teeth. I stared incredu¬ 
lously at him. 

“You mean—those fellows?” I asked. 

“Such of ’em as haven’t broken their damned 
necks, or legs, or arms,” he replied grimly. “Some 
’ud get off scot-free, you can bet—such devils’ spawn 
always do! But the rest’ll be all round and about, 
and I’m going to run no more risks for this night. 
They can’t get in here—but, as I said, outside—ah!” 

“But the police, Mr. Holliment?” I said. “Surely 




MY LADY OF THE DAWN 


35 


they’d be attracted by a row like that, let alone the 
broken door from the street, and all the rest of it? 
I should think they’ll be on your premises by now.” 

“You never can tell,” he answered. “This is a 
deserted district, in a way of speaking—not many 
folk about o’ nights, and the nearest policeman that 
I can think of would be streets away a quarter of 
an hour ago. Anyway—no risks! Besides, what 
ails you here? Take a drop more brandy, as I will, 
and get a smoke—there’s cigars, good ’uns, in that 
box—and when we’ve pulled round a bit, we’ll pick 
a mouthful of supper, and then consider further. 
The main thing, my lad, to that we aren’t both on our 
backs in my warehouse, with a few inches of cold 
steel in our necks! Help yourself this time.” 

I helped myself—it seemed a wise thing to do, for 
I was still shaky, and I lighted a cigar, and sat 
down on a sofa near the fire. Holliment followed 
suit, and dropped into the easy chair opposite; for 
a while we sat sipping at our glasses and smoking our 
tobacco—in silence. Maybe nearly an hour went 
by before either of us spoke or moved; then Holli¬ 
ment suddenly got up and flung the end of his cigar 
into the grate. 

“I’m all right again!” he said. “Right as ever! 
That’s the brandy. How do you feel yourself, now?” 

“As if I hadn’t had any,” said I. “But if it 
hadn’t been for that scrap next door, I’d have been 
drunk at this minute!” 

“Just so—just so!” he agreed gravely. “I might 


36 


RIPPLING RUBY 


have felt that way myself. Something to do with 
the nervous system, no doubt—doctor’s affair, that, 
and I’m no doctor. But I’ll tell you that—I’m 
hungry. We’ll pick a bit—I’ve a nice round of 
cold beef and a wedge of prime old cheese—how does 
it sound? With ale, of course. Plenty of bottled 
ale on the premises.” 

“It sounds uncommonly tempting, Mr. Holliment,” 
I answered. 

“Then here goes,” he said, “I’ll prepare matters.” 

He began to bustle about, and I remained on the 
sofa, idly watching him. I saw at once that he was 
a methodical man, and also a man who was particu¬ 
lar about the way in which he ate and drank. From 
a drawer in the centre table he produced a clean 
white table cloth and even napkins, with carefully 
cleaned and polished knives and forks; he took down 
plates from a rack and clear glasses from the side¬ 
board, and had presently arranged his table as 
neatly and deftly as if he had been a well-trained 
parlour-maid. And having brought from a sort of 
larder-cupboard in the further recess of the room 
a round of cold beef, a fine piece of cheese, bread, 
butter, and a jar of pickled walnuts, he drew the 
corks of two bottles of ale, poured out the contents, 
and with a nod to me to draw up to the table, laid 
hands on his carving knife and fork. 

“You’ll be hungry by this time—in the natural 
course of things,” he suggested. “Long past any¬ 
body’s supper time, or dinner time, what?” 


MY LADY OF THE DAWN 


37 


“I am hungry, Mr. Holliment,” I admitted. “And 
the sight of your beef makes me hungrier.” 

“Always keep a snack of something down here,” 
he said, carving delicate slices. “Comes in handy. 
But you got your dinner all right, eh?” 

“And tea, thank you,” I replied. “Both very 
good and plentiful. The man from the Admiral 
Hawke brought them—as you said he would.” 

“Jim,” he remarked, nodding. “Aye, a civil, 
obliging fellow, Jim. Been potman there a good 
many years. You don’t know this part of the 
town ?” 

“No!” said I. “But I found your place easily 
enough—on a simple direction or two from your 
friend Mr. Quartervayne.” 

He started a little at that, arresting the play of 
his carving knife. 

“Aye, to be sure!” he muttered. “Quartervayne, 
of course, sent you. I’d forgotten for the mo¬ 
ment how we met—odd! And—you’ll excuse me? 
—what were you doing when you met Quarter¬ 
vayne ?” 

“If you want to know, Mr. Holliment, I was on 
the Clarence Pier, stranded,” I replied. “I’d been 
stranded here in Portsmouth for two days, expecting 
a remittance that hadn’t come—anyway it hadn’t 
come when I met Quartervayne.” 

“I remember—I remember!” he said. “He gave 
you a quid. And where were you wanting to get, 
now?” 


88 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“London,” I answered. “I should have gone off 
to London with Quartervayne’s quid if you hadn’t 
asked me to see to your office.” 

He had already begun to eat, but at that, his 
cheek bulging with beef, he laid down his knife and 
fork, and for a moment stared straight in front 
of him. 

“London?” he suddenly murmured. “London 
now? Aye, and no bad idea either. If there’s a 
place in the world where a man’s safe-” 

He broke off, turning to me- 

“You still want to get to London?” 

“By the first train I can strike as soon as I’m 
out of this,” I answered. 

He picked up his knife and fork again, and began 
to eat steadily. 

“Look here!” he said, after a while. “I’ll take 
you to London myself, and I’ll go there myself, too! 
Best place. As long as that damned Chinaman is 
alive—if he is—and you might as well try to poison 
the devil—there’ll be no . . . but never mind! 
London’s the ticket! Now listen. I’ve a car—not 
new, but good—not far from here, and plenty of 
petrol in her, too, all ready. When we’ve finished 
supper, I’ll just take a careful look round, and if 
things seem clear, we’ll slip out, get to my car, and 
be off, what?” 

“Nothing would suit me better, Mr. Holliment,” 
I answered, “I’m game!” 

“Then it’s done, and make a good supper, for it’ll 




MY LADY OF THE DAWN 


39 


be a coldish ride through what’s left of the night,” 
he said. “More beef, now?” 

We both made a good supper—a hearty supper. 
Then we tidied up his table, washing the plates and 
things at a sink and putting them all in place again. 
And after that, bidding me not to be afraid during 
his absence, he went up the stair and let himself out. 
He was not away more than ten minutes, and his 
first action on returning was to take down two heavy 
overcoats, and to hand one to me with a nod which 
signified that all was right. Then he turned out the 
lamp, led me out, and up to the hall of which I have 
already spoken. We got out of that by some means 
known to him, and then through alleys and courts 
to a yard where, in the darkness, stood a car. Close 
by was a half-open door, through which a light 
showed—Holliment went within this and presently 
came back with two glasses in his hand, one of which 
he handed to me with the remark that it was a drop 
of whisky to keep the cold out. We drank—and 
then he bade me get inside the car, and, if I liked, 
go to sleep; he himself would drive, and I obeyed 
his bidding . . . and before we had cleared the 
town was hard and fast asleep. 

I woke suddenly, with a great start, imagining 
that a yellow-faced Chinaman had thrust a knife 
into my ribs. But I did not find myself in Holli- 
ment’s car. Instead, I found myself lying on a 
bank of heather, on the topmost heights of a far 
stretching down. There was the full glory of a 


40 


RIPPLING RUBY 


Springtide dawn all round me, and at my side, hold¬ 
ing a smart cob by its bridle, and gazing curiously 
at my startled eyes, stood the handsomest girl I had 
ever seen in my twenty-three years of life. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE CHALK-PIT 

Utterly confounded as I was by this sudden 
coming back to waking life, I had sufficient of sense 
about me to comprehend what I saw. And the main 
thing was the girl. She was a tallish, slimmish crea¬ 
ture, dressed in riding-coat and breeches and nattily 
finished off, even to her white cravat and polished 
boots, early though the hour was; a sort of Amazon 
girl in a way, though essentially feminine; the red- 
gold of her hair struck me, and the brown lights in 
her eyes, and the warmth in her cheeks and lips, 
and her lips were just then unmistakably severe, not 
to say hard, and there was a bit of a frown between 
her finely arched eyebrows which seemed to argue 
a temper that was not far off being roused. I saw, 
too, what had made me think of the Chinaman’s 
knife in connection with my ribs; the girl carried 
a substantial hunting-crop, and finding me there 
asleep she had poked me with it until I came awake. 
Indeed, she was pushing it pretty vigorously into 
my arm-pit when I succumbed to its invitation and 
opened my eyes on her. 


41 


42 


RIPPLING RUBY 


I struggled up into a sitting posture and took a 
good long stare at her, and her cob, and at the turf 
and heather around me. When my eyes got back to 
hers she spoke. 

“What are you doing there? Out with it, now!” 

She had a sweet voice but I never heard a school¬ 
master speak more peremptorily, and the very in¬ 
sistence of her note cleared my brain—somewhat. 

“That,” I answered, “is just what I’d like to 
know!” 

The frown between her eyebrows grew deeper at 
that, and I saw her thin fingers tighten round the 
hunting-crop. 

“Don’t tell lies, now!” she commanded. “You’ve 
been sleeping out—here! Overslept yourself, of 
course, and I caught you before you could wake and 
hide yourself. Now don’t go lying or prevaricating 
to me! You’ve been sleeping out to watch—those!” 

She suddenly lifted the hunting-crop and twisting 
round a little, pointed along the Down behind her. 
And then I saw, on a plateau of level land, a string 
of race-horses at walking exercise. Mechanically I 
counted them—one, two, three, four, five. And I 
realised what she meant. She had thought that I was 
some spy, lurking up there to get a surreptitious 
peep at what might, for aught I knew, be some 
valuable bit of horse-flesh. 

“Answer!” she insisted. “Isn’t that it?” 

I shook my head with what was doubtless a sickly 
smile. 


THE CHALK-PIT 


43 


“Certainly not that!” said I. “Horses? Good 
Lord!—I scarcely know a horse from a camel! I 
suppose those are race-horses? Yes—but I’ve never 
even seen a horse-race! No—I’m not here for that!” 

“Then why are you here?” she demanded, eyeing 
me over with growing wonder. “You—you speak like 
a gentleman—you’re well dressed—you’re—what’s 
it mean? This is a private part of the Down—my 
property. What are you doing on it?—asleep, on 
a March morning ? Look!—your clothes are 
covered with dew!” 

That seemed to me a very unimportant detail. 
But I looked along myself and saw that my neat blue 
serge suit certainly looked as if gossamer webs had 
been spun over it. And at that I essayed to rise— 
got to my knees—then my feet—and on the instant 
reeled like a drunken man. In a flash the girl had 
an arm round my shoulders, and her voice changed 
to the tones of womanly solicitude. 

“What’s the matter?” she exclaimed anxiously. 
“Are—are you ill?” 

I made a big effort and caught hold of the cob’s 
saddle. He was a substantial beast, and I got a 
sense of security from holding on to him. And at 
that the girl suddenly thrust her hand in one of the 
pockets of her skirted coat and bringing out a little 
silver flask hastily unscrewed the top and thrust 
the flask into my free hand. 

“Drink!” she commanded. 

I drank. Brandy—good old brandy. It brought 


RIPPLING RUBY 


back Holliment and last night, and it steadied me. 
I pushed the flask back to her with a nod and looked 
slowly round. On that side the ground fell away 
to a valley; beyond the valley I saw ridge after ridge 
of rolling country, with here and there a spire and 
here and there the gables and chimneys of halls and 
farmsteads, and in the blue distance the domes and 
towers of a town; beyond that, sea. I pointed to 
the town. 

“What’s that place?” I asked of her. 

“That ?” she exclaimed. “Portsmouth!” 

I straightened myself up against the cob’s 
shoulder. 

“Very well!” I said. “The last thing I remember 
before you woke me up was riding out of Portsmouth 
in a motor-car! I’ve no more idea than you have 
how I came to be here. But I think I must have been 
drugged. Where am I?” 

Her eyes were wide open with perplexity by that 
time, but she answered readily enough. 

“Where are you? These are Chilverton Downs—• 
twelve miles from Portsmouth,” she said. “You say 
you left there in a car? When?” 

“About midnight,” I answered. “But which par¬ 
ticular midnight I don’t know. Yet—I must have 
been drugged. I fell asleep the instant I got in the 
car and then I never knew any more. Is—does any 
road from Portsmouth to London cross these 
Downs ?” 

“No direct road,” she replied, “but there is a road 


THE CHALK-PIT 


45 


fifty yards away from where we’re standing—just 
behind that big clump of gorse. Who drove you?” 

“Um!” said I. “I wonder! For now Pm not 
certain. I thought—but its no use speculating. 
Drugged? Yes, of course. That last drink!” 

“Were—were you drunk? she asked with sudden 
directness. 

“Drunk? No!” I laughed. “If you knew-” 

But in that instant I paused. I wanted my hand¬ 
kerchief and had put my hand in my inner breast 
pocket to pull it out. There was something other 
than the handkerchief there. Money! Coin! My 
fingers sank on it—hard, metallic. 

“Good Lord!” I said. “What on earth is this?” 

I began to pull it out, pouring it from one hand 
to the other—sovereigns!—no end of them; eventu¬ 
ally I had a palm heaped full, and like to run over. 
Those were the days wherein the sight of a sovereign 
amazed nobody; nevertheless, the girl uttered a cry 
of astonishment. 

“Yes!” I said. “That’s just what I feel. But— 
hullo, here’s more!” 

There was a paper, crumpled up anyhow, at the 
bottom of my pocket. I pulled it out and made 
shift to open it. Four words only—scrawled in 
pencil. 

Keep a quiet tongue! 

I knew she wanted to see that paper. And I was 
not going to show it to her. I put it back; put 



46 


RIPPLING RUBY 


the gold back, and made a big effort to get all my 
wits together. Then I looked at her. 

“I’m very sorry to have been found on your 
private land,” I said as politely as possible, “and 
Fm grateful to you for the brandy and—and for 
your interest. The truth is, I was mixed up, acci¬ 
dentally, in a most extraordinary adventure last 
night, in Portsmouth. The man who shared it with 
me promised to drive me to London and gave me a 
stiff drink just before starting. He must have 
drugged me, and, when he got here, left me—where 
you found me. Now I’ll go away. But I’m still 
queer and a bit faint—can you tell me of any inn 
or cottage where I can go and sit down awhile?” 

She had listened to all this with close attention, 
watching me narrowly, and now, without a word, 
she drew a silver whistle from her pocket and blew 
sharply on it. A man whom I had noticed sitting 
motionless on a horse at some little distance turned 
quickly at the sound and came cantering up. He 
was a typically horsey sort of fellow, keen-faced, 
shrewd-eyed, and he gave me a questioning glance 
as he approached. 

“Bradgett!” said the girl. “Pm going down to 
the house. See to everything—I shan’t come up 
again this morning.” 

The man touched his cap, groom-fashion, and went 
off in the same silence in which he had approached, 
and the girl turned to me. 

“Come along to my house,” she said. “I’ll give 


THE CHALK-PIT 


47 


you some breakfast. Take hold of the cob’s saddle, 
it’ll help you to walk.” 

I was glad enough of that; I was feeling queerer 
then than I had when I came back to consciousness. 

“You’re very good to a perfect stranger—found 
under curious conditions,” I said, as she led me 
down the hillside. “May I know to whom I’m in¬ 
debted so much?” 

She gave me a queer look, and a smile began to 
dimple her cheek. 

“You said you’d never seen a horse-race, I think?” 
she remarked. 

“Never!” said I. “I know nothing about horse¬ 
racing matters—nothing.” 

“I thought not,” she answered, with a laugh. “Or 
you’d have known me. I’m Miss Margaret Manson, 
the trainer. Did you never hear of the great Kit 
Manson, who trained five Derby and six St. Leger 
winners? He was my father, and when he died two 
years ago I succeeded to his business. And why I 
was so insistent on knowing how you came there 
and what you were doing was because I’ve got a 
Derby candidate in training, and I don’t want any 
strange folk peeping and prying round, don’t you 
see? I thought you were a spy.” 

“Innocent enough, Miss Manson,” I answered. 
“My name’s Cranage, James Cranage—I’m really 
an actor by profession, but of late I’ve been secre¬ 
tary to Barrett Oliver, the famous actor-manager. 
Oliver’s gone to Australia, on tour, and I didn’t 


48 


RIPPLING RUBY 


want to go with him, and I’m looking out for another 
post. As to how I came to get mixed up in the ad¬ 
venture I spoke of just now, perhaps I’ll tell you 
_ jj 

“Wait till you’ve had some breakfast,” she broke 
in. “You look a bit shaky yet. But we’ve not far 
to go—only round the corner of that spinney. 
These . . 

There presently came into view a house and 
stables which until then had been concealed by the 
thick covert to which she had just pointed. Never 
having seen a training establishment before I was 
astonished at the size and range of both, and at the 
almost palatial character of the private residence 
into which I was presently conducted. And on the 
threshold I paused. 

“Your servants,” said I, “will think you’ve 
brought some tramp or other to breakfast.” 

“Not when you’ve had a good wash!” she retorted 
with a laugh. “That seems to be all you need—at 
a pinch. But first, come into the dining-room.” 

She was clearly a girl of understanding and re¬ 
source. She took me into a fine dining-room, led 
me up to the sideboard, and from a cellaret pro¬ 
duced a small bottle of champagne, which she pro¬ 
ceeded to open very deftly with her slim fingers. 

“You drink that!” she commanded, pouring out 
the creamy liquid. “And you’ll feel a new man. 
Then I’ll turn you loose in the bath-room, and by 
breakfast time—eh?” 



THE CHALK-PIT 


49 


She laughed merrily as she handed me the glass, 
and I laughed, too, catching the infection. 

“Bless you!” I said. “You’re a good sort, any¬ 
how ! Long life and every happiness to you!” 

I did feel a new man an hour later—she had had 
razors and things laid out for me in the bath-room, 
and when, washed and cleaned, I went down to break¬ 
fast I scarcely realised that two hours before I had 
been found lying like an outcast on the open heath. 
I saw, too, that she looked at me with approval as I 
entered the room where she was waiting with a pleas¬ 
ant-faced oldish lady whom she introduced as her 
aunt, Miss Millie Hepple. 

“Better?” she asked as we sat down to breakfast. 

“I should be more ungrateful—and more grace¬ 
less—than I am if I weren’t!” I said. “Yes, thank 
you, I’m so much better that if it pleases you to 
hear it, I’ll tell you the story of my adventures yes¬ 
terday and last night.” 

“I won’t deny that I’ve got a truly feminine curi¬ 
osity about it,” she laughed as she began to carve 
a fine York ham that stood before her. “Tell me, 
by all means—if you want to.” 

“I do want!” I answered firmly. “I think you’re a 
young lady of judgment and common sense, and I 
should just like to know what you’ve got to say 
about the whole thing. For its absolutely beyond 
me, and I don’t know whether I ought not to go 
back to Portsmouth and get in touch with the police. 
However . . 


50 


RIPPLING RUBY 


Over that breakfast table I told the two ladies 
the whole story, from my meeting with Quartervayne 
on the Clarence Pier to my finding myself on the top 
of Chilverton Downs. I spared no detail, telling 
them by word of mouth what I have here set out in 
writing. The telling produced different effects in 
each listener. Miss Hepple, who, later on, admitted 
to me that she loved sensational fiction, was amazed 
to find that things actually happen in real life which 
are at least as strange as those imagined by the 
professional story-teller; she took the whole in with 
zest and appetite. But Miss Manson’s interest was 
of a practical sort; I saw that she was putting two 
and two together, reckoning chances, speculating on 
probabilities; the more I told, the more thoughtful 
she became. 

“And that’s the end!” I concluded abruptly. 

She gave me a straight glance. 

“You mean—that’s the beginning,” she said. “Or, 
if it’s the end, it’s merely the end of the first chapter. 
Of course, the thing has only begun. Curtain on 
Act One—that’s where you’ve got to. Next—Act 
Two.” 

“Not with me in it!” said I, determinedly. 

“How do you know?” she questioned. “You may 
be dragged—forced—into it. Anyway, as I say, 
it’s only the beginning.” 

“What I want to know,” observed Miss Hepple 
from behind her tea-tray, “is—what does it all 
mean? You don’t know, of course, sir?” 


THE CHALK PIT 


51 


“I’ve no more idea, ma’am,” I replied, “than I 
have of the merits of the Bacon-Shakespeare con¬ 
troversy. All I know is—what I’ve told you. Up 
to now—the whole thing is a mystery.” 

“Have you counted that money?” asked Miss 
Manson, suddenly. 

“I have! There’s a hundred pounds in 
sovereigns,” I answered. 

“Hush-money, of course,” she observed. 

“Something of the sort, no doubt,” said I. “Still, 
considering what I went through last night, I think 
I’m entitled to it.” 

“Stick to it, anyway,” said she. “But as to tell¬ 
ing the police, I think I should await develop¬ 
ments. Wait for the next news. You never know 

_55 

Even as she spoke, the next news, the next develop¬ 
ment, was at hand. A maid came in, to tell her that 
Bradgett was in the hall, and anxious to see her. 
She left the breakfast table hurriedly. I could see 
that she was already alarmed and wondering if any¬ 
thing had befallen any of her precious charges. But 
within two minutes she looked in at the open door 
of the room and nodded at me. 

“Mr. Cranage,” she said, “will you come out 
here?” 

I went out. Bradgett was standing a little way 
down the wide hall; she drew me in the opposite di¬ 
rection. 

“Have you any idea as to what sort of car it was 



52 


RIPPLING RUBY 


that you were driven away in, last night?” she asked 
in a whisper. 

“What sort? Do you mean make?” I replied. 
“No—no idea whatever. It was dark, pitch dark, 
in the yard we started from. All I know is that 
it was a car—a very second-hand sort of car, I 
should say—why?” 

“Wait a minute,” she answered. Then she turned 
to Bradgett. “All right, Bradgett,” she called. 
“I’ll go there myself. Did you say the Upper 
Chalk-Pit?” 

“That’s it, miss—the Upper Chalk-Pit,” replied 
Bradgett. “At the bottom, of course.” 

“Very well—I’ll go now,” she said. Then, as 
the man left the hall, she turned to me again. “One 
of our boys has just come in with news that a 
motor-car, hopelessly wrecked, of course, has been 
found this morning at the bottom of a chalk-pit, 
half a mile away. Gone clear over the edge—a drop 
of, oh, perhaps seventy or eighty feet!” 

“With anybody in it?” I exclaimed. “Seventy or 
eighty feet! Why, then-” 

“But that’s the queer thing,” said she. “There 
isn’t a trace of anybody. Of course, if there had 
been anybody in it, a plunge of eighty feet—eh?” 

We stood for a moment in silence, staring at each 
other. Then she turned to a stand close by, picked 
out an ashplant walking-stick, and motioning me to 
take another moved off towards the hall door. 

“Come along!” she said. “We’ve both finished 



THE CHALK PIT 


53 


breakfast, and we’ll go to look at it. For I’m al¬ 
ready wondering—is this the car that brought you 
to the top of the Downs ?” 

“And if it is,” said I, “where’s Holliment? For 
Holliment certainly drove it. And if it is his car and 
he went over with it-” 

“That’s utterly impossible,” she declared. “No 
man could go over the edge of that chalk-pit and 
fall eighty feet and then get away alive. But it’s 
no use speculating—let’s get there.” 

She led me out of the grounds, along the hillside, 
and up a sort of mountain road for half a mile. 
Suddenly turning off this and crossing a bit of wiry 
turf she brought me up sharp on the very lip of 
the chalk-pit—unfenced, unprotected in any way. 
And looking down we saw the car, a good eighty 
feet below. It seemed to me that it was smashed into 
as many fragments as there are seas in the world. 
There were people, shepherds, farm lads, gapers from 
a village close by, gathered about it, and we went 
down the hillside by a sheep-track and joined them. 
There was a policeman there, too; he told us that 
the matter must have occurred during the early 
hours of the morning, for he himself had been in 
the chalk-pit with a game watcher at midnight, and 
there was then nothing to notice; he said too that 
the lad who had first found the wreckage, at seven 
o’clock, had seen nothing of any human being in 
connection with it. And then he drew our attention 
to a significant fact—there was nothing amongst 



54 


RIPPLING RUBY 


the wreckage by which the car could be identified— 
all that sort of thing had been removed. 

“And there’s only one conclusion to come to, Miss 
Manson,” he wound up. “This here car has been 
deserted by its driver up on top there and then 
started and made to leap the edge! Now, why?” 


CHAPTER V 

THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 

That question, obvious enough, was doubtless 
agitating the minds of the twelve or twenty country 
folk who stood around, dividing their stares between 
the wrecked car and ourselves. But the policeman 
had more to say, and was eager to say it. 

“I’ve been up on top there, Miss Manson,” he 
went on, pointing to the brow of the chalk-pit high 
above where we stood. “Yes, I went up there as 
soon as I set eyes on this mess, though, of course, 
I made sure to begin with that there wasn’t no dead 
body nor parts o’ one lying down here. And I took 
a careful look round, miss, not only at what’s just 
above, but at the road beyond. Of course, a trained 
eye, like mine, sees what—well, what other people 
don’t see. You’ll understand me?” 

“Perfectly, Roberts,” replied Miss Manson. “And 
you saw—what?” 

“This here, miss,” answered the policeman with 
proud assurance. “That there car came along the 
road that runs behind your place, across the shoul- 
55 


56 


RIPPLING RUBY 


der of the hill, and from the south—it didn’t come 
t’other way. ’Cause why? Before ever going up 
there I took a careful look at them tyres—you’ll 
see they’re of a peculiar make, and therefore have 
a peculiar impression. 

“Now then, you’ll find that impression coming up 
the road from near your place, not down the road, 
and if you and this gentleman’ll go up there, you’ll 
find that right above this chalk-pit them impres¬ 
sions in the road surface stop—sharp! I’ll tell you 
what happened, miss—the fellow as had this car 
pulled up there. Then he probably took a look round 
—and over this here formidable cavity, though it’s 
likely he knew of it before. Then he got his car on 
to the turf above that edge, jumped off himself 
while she was moving, and let her—rip! He stood 
up there—safe, and she went over the edge—smash! 
How’s that—miss?” 

“It does great credit to your powers of observa¬ 
tion and deduction, Roberts,” said Miss Manson. 
“If I were you, as you’re still youngish, I should go 
in for the detective service.” 

“Well, and I’ve thought of that before now, miss,” 
remarked the gratified policeman. “However, there’s 
one thing beats me about this job, and it’s this— 
What object could any man have in wrecking a car 
like this—deliberate? ’Taint what you’d call a 
first-class nor yet a second-class car, and it ain’t 
even middle-aged, neither, by its looks, but still, 
’twas serviceable and ’twas property. You’d think 


THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 


57 


’twas the act of a madman, this here, now wouldn’t 
you, miss ?” 

Miss Manson replied that she was quite in agree¬ 
ment with the policeman’s sentiments, and then she 
and I returned to the top of the chalk-pit and veri¬ 
fied his statement about the impressions on the light 
surface of the hillside road. There was no doubt 
whatever that the car had come to this point from 
near that at which I had been deposited during the 
night, nor that the running of it over the edge of 
the chalk-pit had been a deliberate act, for on ex¬ 
amining the edges of the roadway more carefully we 
saw the place whereat it had been turned off at 
almost right angles and another place where it had 
evidently rested on the turf before being re-started 
and sent to destruction. 

“That’s the car in which you were brought from 
Portsmouth,” declared my companion, with firm 
conviction. “That’s certain.” 

“Yes,” I directed. “But where’s its driver? And 
what did he do this for? And don’t you think I’d 
better go back to Portsmouth and tell the police all 
I know?” 

“No, I don’t think I should if I were you,” she 
answered. “You’ve done nothing—you merely fell 
into a curious combination of circumstances. If I 
were in your place I should just wait to see what 
happens.” 

“And stick to this money?” I asked, tapping my 
pocket, where the gold felt unpleasantly heavy. 


58 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Why not? It was put there,” she said. “Cer¬ 
tainly I should stick to it! But you’ll hear some¬ 
thing—sooner or later. There’s some mystery 
behind all this. And—what are you going to do, 
now?” 

“Go on to London, I suppose,” I answered. 
“Where’s the nearest station?” 

“That’s five or six miles away,” she replied. “But 
—I’d an idea for you.” 

“An idea?—for me?” I exclaimed, looking my 
surprise. “What ?” 

“Do you want another secretaryship?” she asked. 

“I want any good and decent job—of that sort,” I 
answered. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t very 
much of a success on the stage—I think I’m better 
fitted for the other sort of thing. Why, do you know 
of anybody who wants a secretary?” 

“Have you references and testimonials?” she en¬ 
quired in a business-like fashion. “Real good ones?” 

For answer I pulled out my pocket-book, ex¬ 
tracted certain letters and papers from it, and 
handed them to her in silence. In silence she read 
them all through, then, handing them back, she 
pointed across the valley to a big house, half hidden 
amongst trees, that stood above the little village 
which I had noticed when we were at the chalk-pit. 

“You see that place?” she said. “That’s 
Renardsmere House. Lady Renardsmere lives there 
—when she isn’t in town. Perhaps you don’t recog¬ 
nise her under that name. She was once-—some 


THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 


59 


time ago—a well-known actress—Helena Reading. 
You know that name, of course. She married Sir 
William Renardsmere. Now he’s dead and she’s got 
all his lands and his money—no end of it. And 
for the last five years or so she’s gone in for racing, 
and I’ve got her Derby candidate in my stable— 
Rippling Ruby. . 

“Rippling Ruby!” I exclaimed. “Why, of course 
I know her name! She’s high up in the betting, 
isn’t she?” 

“Three to one at present,” she answered, almost 
indifferently. “But she’ll start at odds on, or my 
name isn’t Peggie Manson! Rippling Ruby will win 
the Derby as certain as that’s my house and that 
those are my stables and that this is my land! How¬ 
ever, that’s neither here or there. The real thing 
just now—for you—is that Lady Renardsmere, who 
loathes writing even a note and hates accounts, 
wants—a secretary. I should say that you, with 
your references and testimonials, and especially that 
letter from Barrett Oliver, are just the man for 
her!” 

“It’s awfully good of you to think of it!” I said. 
“You’re a true Samaritan, Miss Manson.” 

“Oh, I don’t know!” she laughed. “Always willing 
to do a good turn, though. Now look here—there’s 
nothing like doing things at once. My dear old 
father always said the three finest words in the world 
were—Do it now! I’ll go across with you to Lady 
Renardsmere—I want to see her this morning, so 


60 


RIPPLING RUBY 


we shall kill two birds with one stone. But first 
come to the stables, and I’ll show you the little lady 
that’s going to win the Derby.” 

She led me through the gardens surrounding her 
house to the training quarters close by. To me, 
who had never seen any establishment of this sort 
before, and who had no idea whatever of the condi¬ 
tions under which thoroughbreds are trained, the 
whole place was a marvel; what seemed still more 
marvellous was that a mere girl could manage it. 
But I soon saw that Miss Margaret Manson was 
not merely mistress but absolute autocrat; the whole 
army of men and boys which we passed under review 
evidently trembled at her nod and hung on her 
lightest word—no commanding officer crossing his 
barracks yard could possibly have been received 
with more respect and obedience than she was as she 
queened it through her little empire. 

Not less of a queen seemed Rippling Ruby in the 
jealously guarded and specially watched domain 
to which her trainer led me. I knew nothing of 
horseflesh then and was awfully ignorant of the 
various points of a thoroughbred; all I knew was 
that I was invited to look at what seemed to me the 
equivalent, in the horse world, of a very beautiful 
woman in our own—an exquisitely modelled thing of 
life and fire, whose bright bay coat, brilliant eyes, 
delicate nostrils, and perfectly moulded limbs sug¬ 
gested all sorts of things beyond my imagination. 
And when Miss Manson with a hand on the creature’s 





THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 


61 


neck, and a couple of stable-boys looking on rever¬ 
ently, asked me if this wasn’t a beauty, all I could 
do was—metaphorically—to fall down and worship. 

“Has—has she ever run in a race?” I asked, 
timidly. 

The attendants—for one horrified second—turned 
their faces on me and opened their mouths in sheer, 
incredulous astonishment; the next, they sighed 
gently and once more relapsed into stolid respect¬ 
fulness. Miss Manson laughed. 

“Oh, yes, she’s run in a race!” she answered. 
“She’s run twice. She won the Champagne Stakes 
at Doncaster last year, as a two-year old, by three 
lengths, and she carried off the One Thousand 
Guineas at Newmarket only last week, by four. 
That’s her little record! Yes—she’s run ... a 
bit!” 

“I told you I knew nothing about racing,” I said, 
humbly. “Well—here’s my best respects and good 
wishes to her! And I’ll go to Epsom to see her win 
the Derby.” 

“I don’t think there’s much doubt that you’ll 
go there,” remarked Miss Manson, a moment 
later as she and I left the box, “that’s pretty 
certain!” 

“Why?” I asked, looking at her in surprise. 

“Because I think Lady Renardsmere will give you 
the job,” she replied readily. “She’s a great affec¬ 
tion for anybody or anything that has to do or has 
had to do with her old profession, and the main 


62 


RIPPLING RUBY 


fact that you’ve trodden the boards and been con¬ 
nected with Barrett Oliver will be an enormous 
recommendation. But come along!—we’ll go across 
to Renardsmere House.” 

She led me—this time by a different path—back 
to the valley, and through the village which I had 
already seen from the hillside. It was a quaint, old- 
world place, with a grey church, thatched cottages, 
farmsteads set amidst old trees, and a general air 
of quiet prosperity. Small as it was, I noticed 
that it possessed a roomy-looking, old-fashioned 
inn; the swinging sign outside bore the name “The 
Renardsmere Arms.” 

“Everything here is Renardsmere,” observed 
Miss Manson, seeing me look at this. “The name 
of the village is Renardsmere; the inn is Renards¬ 
mere; the big house is Renardsmere. But I sup¬ 
pose you’ll think of Lady Renardsmere as Helena 
Reading ?” 

“I’ve seen pictures of her as Helena Reading,” 
I said. “But of course I never saw her on the 
stage. She was a great beauty, I believe.” 

“By jove, she isn’t now, though!” exclaimed Miss 
Manson. “I suppose there are traces of it, but— 
however, you’ll see her in five minutes.” 

We found Lady Renardsmere in a corner of her 
extensive gardens. It had been very evident to me 
as we passed through them that she employed a big 
staff of gardeners, but the fact remains that when 
we discovered her, her ladyship, in a coarse and 


THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 


63 


much stained garden dress, and with an old hat tied 
on to her head by an equally disreputable scarf, 
was digging straw manure with a five-pronged fork 
into a bed of soil destined for some purpose best 
known to herself. She straightened her tall figure 
at our approach, knocking one hand into the small 
of her back as she steadily inspected me—a stranger. 
And I just as steadily inspected her. A queer 
woman! I thought—with a deeply lined, strangely 
seamed face, an odd mouth, and a pair of dark 
eyes still full of fire. 

“Who’s that young fellow?” she demanded before 
we had come within six paces of her. “Friend of 
yours, Peggie Manson? Good-looking lad, too— 
knows how to hold himself—umph!” 

“This is a young gentleman, Lady Renardsmere, 
who has heard that you want a secretary, and 
thinks he could serve you well,” replied Miss Man- 
son, as I made my bow. “He’s already been secre¬ 
tary to the famous actor-manager, Barrett Oliver, 
and he’s got splendid testimonials.” 

I saw a curious gleam come into the old woman’s 
eyes. 

“Barrett Oliver! Good Lord!—he was just 
starting when I finished!” she said. “Umph!—and 
what’s your name, my lad?” 

“My name, Lady Renardsmere, is James Cran¬ 
age,” I answered. 

“Been on the stage yourself, eh?” she demanded 
sharply. “Thought so! I could see that! You 


64 


RIPPLING RUBY 


know how to keep your chin up and speak your 
mother’s tongue. Umph!” 

She drew off her gardening gloves and threw 
them aside. 

“Where are your papers?” she asked. “Let’s see 
them.” 

I handed over the references and testimonials 
which I had already shown to Miss Manson. The old 
lady read them through with a countenance that be¬ 
trayed nothing; in the end she selected two letters 
and pointed at the signatures and addresses. 

“These two gentlemen knew you personally?” she 
asked. 

“Intimately—from childhood, Lady Renards- 
mere,” I replied. 

“I’ll telephone to ’em during the day,” she said. 
“You come here to-morrow morning at ten o’clock. 
Then we’ll settle matters. I’ll keep your papers till 
then—all right. Now, Peggie Manson, what do you 
want ?” 

I made Lady Renardsmere a bow and withdrew 
to the edge of that particular corner of the garden 
in which my possibly future employer was toiling 
like any day-labourer. In five minutes Miss Man- 
son joined me, and we went away. 

“Odd woman!” I remarked when we were clear 
of her presence. 

“Odd? Wait till you know her!” exclaimed Miss 
Manson. “But I’ll tell you this—she’s the kindest- 
hearted woman in England.” 


THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 


65 


“They seem thick hereabouts,” said I, shyly. “Or 
else I’m exceptionally lucky!” 

“No compliments!” she commanded. “Well, 
you’re to go there at ten to-morrow. What’ll you 
do until then?” 

“Where’s the nearest town—with decent shops?” 
I asked. 

“There is no nearest town,” she replied. “But 
there’s a big village—Chilbourne—with good shops 
—two miles down the road from Renardsmere.” 

“Then I shall go there, get myself a few neces¬ 
saries, come back, and put myself up at the Renards- 
mere Arms for the night,” I answered. “And if, to¬ 
morrow morning, Lady Renardsmere looks with 
favour on me, and engages me, I shall ask twenty- 
four hours leave so that I can run up to town to 
get my belongings.” 

“She’ll engage you all right,” said Miss Manson, 
drily. “I know her, she took to you as soon as ever 
she set her sharp old eyes on you! You’re in luck.” 

“Been in luck—no end of luck—ever since six 
o’clock this morning, haven’t I?” I suggested. “All 
that’s necessary now, I should think, is to rake up 
all the money I can, put it on Rippling Ruby for 
the Derby, and-” 

“I never advise boys to bet,” she interrupted, 
rather severely. “You leave betting alone! Now, 
as we’re at the inn, you’d better go in and make 
your arrangements—I’m off, for I’ve a lot to do.” 

She gave me a smile and a nod and was turning 



66 


RIPPLING RUBY 


off by a path that led to the hillside when I made 
bold to call her back. 

“Well?” she asked, still smilling. 

“I—I may see you again, mayn’t I?” I sug¬ 
gested. 

“If you fix things up with Lady Renardsmere— 
as I’m pretty certain you will—you’ll probably be 
sick to death of seeing me!” she retorted. “Now go 
in there and make your arrangements!” 

She went off, resolutely, and without looking 
back, at that, and I turned into the Renardsmere 
Arms, and explained to its landlady that having 
some business with her ladyship at the big house 
I found it necessary to stay the night in th$ f village. 
This procured me the best room; having seen it, I 
went into the bar-parlour to get a drink before 
walking along to Chilbourne. There were villagers 
in there, men taking a noontide glass, and they 
were talking about the wrecked car in the chalk¬ 
pit. And, as is usual in these circumstances and 
places, there was present the man who knows better 
than anybody. He sat in a corner, with a pot of 
ale before him, and laid down the law. 

“Don’t ’ee go for to tell I that there bain’t a 
mortal lot o’ sarcumstance aback o’ that there 
business 1” he was saying when I went in. “Deal o’ 
talk goin’ about as respects that there car at bot¬ 
tom of old chalk-pit. Policeman, now, he says this 
and he say that, but I reckon I do know what it 
all mean—sure—ly!” 


THE OLD STAGE QUEEN 


67 


“Well, an’ what do it mean, then?” demanded 
another man. 

“It mean one o’ these here burg’lies what you 
reads about i’ the noospapers,” declared the oracle. 
“Burg’ly!—that’s what that do siggerfy! Some o’ 
these here gentlemen thieves, what comes from Lon¬ 
don way. You do wait till ’tis evenin’ and if you 
don’t hear o’ some big house here around bein’ 
cracked open during the night as is past and gone, 
and all the goold watches and the silver forkses 
taken, then my name isn’t what I reckon ’tis! 
Burg’ly—goold watches and silver forkses!” 

“What’s that got to do wi’ a moty-car bein’ 
found bottom o’ chalk-pit?” asked an incredulous 
voice. “I don’t see-” 

“You bain’t a man of a consekytive turn o’ mind, 
you bain’t,” interrupted the oracle. “You ain’t 
got no trains o’ thought same as what I do possess. 
I do figger it out this here fashion. These here 
fellows—swell mobsmen they do call ’em—they 
comes down from London in a oldish moty-car. 
They breaks in and steals, which is Scripture. 
Then they gits away across the Downs. And to 
cover up their tracks they runs old moty-car over 
edge of chalk-pit, and smashes she up, complete, 
while they walks off quiet in another direction. 
That be the way of it! Walks off, nice and proper, 
wi’ all the silver and goold in their pockets!” 

A dead silence followed upon this remarkable 
and ingenious theory. It was broken at last 



68 


RIPPLING RUBY 


by a thoughtful-looking man who had listened 
intently. 

“There med be something in that, too,” he ob¬ 
served. “And I did hear word not an hour ago, in 
Chilbourne Down valley, as how there was two 
strangers seen in there very first thing this morn¬ 
ing, afore sun up, a-making for nearest railway 
station. One was a big heavy man, and t’other 
was a little heavy man. . 

I drank off my glass of ale and went out. Quar- 
tervayne and Holliment, as sure as fate! One big; 
the other little; both heavily made. What did it 
mean? I could understand them dragging me and 
depositing me on the Downs—I could understand 
the gold in my pocket, and the hastily scribbled note, 
there was reason in all that, from their standpoint. 
But why wreck the car? 

However, it was no use speculating about these 
things at that juncture. I had my own affairs to 
think of. I looked about me that afternoon, spent 
the night comfortably at the Renardsmere Arms, 
and next morning called on Lady Renardsmere at 
precisely ten o’clock. Five minutes later she had 
engaged me as her secretary. 



CHAPTER VI 


THE THREE STRANGE MEN 

The situation into which I was thus pitch-forked 
by the vagaries of a whimsical Fortune bade fair 
at first sight to be by no means undesirable or un¬ 
pleasant. Indeed, it looked as if I was about to 
live in clover. Lady Renardsmere, having engaged 
me at a salary fixed by herself and far beyond what 
I had intended to ask of her, gave me a couple of 
rooms for my very own, told off one of her many 
domestics to wait upon me, and intimated that out¬ 
side my secretarial duties I was free to do what I 
liked with my time and was to regard my own par¬ 
ticular corner of her big house as my castle. 

I fetched my belongings from London and settled 
down. The first thing was to find out what my new 
employer desired. That was soon ascertained. Her 
ladyship proved to have two special aversions—she 
loathed writing letters and she hated to keep ac¬ 
counts. But oddly enough she was most punctilious 
about answering all her letters the very day she 
got them, and as to accounts she was meticulously 
particular about every penny of her expenditure 
being booked. 


69 


70 


RIPPLING RUBY 


My job, then, was to answer every letter she re¬ 
ceived—even her private ones, which were not many 
—and to keep her account books. During the whole 
time I was with her, I never saw her put pen to 
paper, except to sign cheques, and it was just as 
well that she was sparing of her penmanship, for 
a bigger, more sprawling fist I never saw in my life 
—her signature spread itself over the entire surface 
of the lower half of a cheque, and looked as if it had 
been scrawled with a gardener’s wooden pen rather 
than with the big quills which she affected. 

She was a queer woman in most ways—utterly 
extravagant and careless where thousands of pounds 
were in question; mean and parsimonious to the last 
degree when it came to a question of pence. I saw 
instances wherein she was foolishly prodigal in 
spending her money—yet there was never a week 
passed without a row if butcher’s meat advanced a 
halfpenny a pound, or salmon rose from half-a- 
crown to three shillings. Rough of tongue, emi¬ 
nently masculine rather than feminine, delighting in 
hard physical toil in her gardens rather than in 
books or music and the artistic things of life, this 
old queen of the stage was an oddity and a puzzle— 
but as Peggy Manson had said, she was kind-hearted 
to the last degree, and there was not a soul in the 
neighbouring village who did not benefit by her 
humanistic feeling. 

As for her servants, of whom, in my opinion, she 
had far too many, they held her in great awe and 


THE THREE STRANGE MEN 


71 


equally great affection. I think, too, they regarded 
her as a good deal of an eccentricity of whose next 
movements they were never sure, and I speedily dis¬ 
covered that you never knew what Lady Renards- 
mere was going to do next; she would go off to 
town in one of her magnificent cars (there were at 
least half a dozen in her garage, of one sort or an¬ 
other) at literally a moment’s notice, and turn up 
again at all or any hours of the night, and woe be¬ 
tide the cook—a Frenchman, who always wore a 
worried air—if he were not able to give her dinner 
at two o’clock in the morning. Queer, decidedly!— 
but as far as I was concerned, easy enough to get 
on with, so long as you were quick to anticipate her 
wishes and to do just what she wanted without fuss 
or question. 

I found out all this within my first fortnight at 
Renardsmere House. And during that fortnight I 
heard nothing of the Portsmouth affair. I never 
say anything in the newspapers about it, though I 
took the trouble to send to Portsmouth for copies of 
the local papers. Of course I heard nothing about 
either Holliment or Quartervayne. And in Renards¬ 
mere nobody—not even the sapient policeman— 
heard anything or discovered anything about the 
wrecked car. The village carpenter, remarking that 
it was a shame to see good stuff lying about, re¬ 
moved all of the wreckage that was worth removing 
to one of his sheds—if nobody ever turned up to 
claim it, he said, he’d find some use for it himself. 


72 


RIPPLING RUBY 


My own belief was that he would have been quite 
safe in using whatever he liked just then—Holli- 
ment in throwing away that car had thrown a cover 
over the whole episode that was not meant to be 
lifted. My opinion was that he had cleared out, 
and that I should never hear of him and his strange 
doings again. 

But at the end of that fortnight the curtain went 
up once more—on Act Two. 

The landlord of the Renardsmere Arms was one 
Holroyd—Ben Holroyd, a Yorkshireman, who had 
drifted South as groom, or coachman in his younger 
days, saved money in his various situations, and had 
eventually, after some years’ service with Sir Wil¬ 
liam Renardsmere, changed his mode of life and 
taken over the licence of the village inn. He was a 
shrewd, sharp fellow, ably assisted in his business 
by his wife, who had been cook at one of the big 
houses in the neighbourhood; in addition to his 
trade as licenced victualler he carried on another 
in hay, straw, and horse-corn. Lady Renardsmere 
had extensive dealings with him in these things, and 
it was part of my job to go down and pay his 
weekly bill every Saturday morning. And on the 
third Saturday after my settling down at Renards¬ 
mere House, being at the inn for this purpose, 
Holroyd, when I had squared his book, gave me 
a glance which seemed to suggest privacy and 
mystery. 

“Mr. Cranage!” he said, bending over his bar 


THE THREE STRANGE MEN 


73 


counter. “There’s a word or two I wanted to say 
to you—between ourselves, like.” 

“Yes?” I responded. “What, now?” 

There was no one but ourselves in the bar-parlour, 
the morning being still early, but he lowered the tone 
of his voice almost to a whisper, at the same time 
glancing at the door, as a man does who has no wish 
to be overheard. 

“There was a fellow in here yesterday,” he be¬ 
gan, “that knew you!” 

He stopped abruptly on the last word, glancing 
more mysteriously than ever in my direction. But 
I affected indifference, though I had an idea that 
something unusual was coming. 

“There are a great many people who know me, 
Holroyd,” I answered. “And I know a great many 
people. Who was this particular person?” 

“He was a chap they call Jim,” he answered, eye¬ 
ing me more closely. “He’s potman at the Admiral 
Hawke Tavern—somewhere in Portsmouth.” 

“Oh!” I said. “Dear me! And—he knew me?” 

“I’ll tell you all about it,” he replied. “It was 
this way. This chap—Jim—has some relation here 
in this village: I made out that he’d come from 
Portsmouth to spend the day with him. He turned 
in here about noon, for a drink, and we got talking 
a bit. We were standing in that window there, 
looking out on the street, and you went by. He 
saw you—and he gave a bit of a start. ‘Hello!’ he 
says, ‘who’s that young gentleman that’s passing 


74 


RIPPLING RUBY 


along there?’ ‘Why,’ says I, ‘do you know him?’ 
‘I know him by sight well enough,’ he says, ‘seen him 
in Portsmouth, I have, but I don’t know his name 
nor who he is.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘that’s Mr. Cranage, 
Lady Renardsmere’s secretary, up at the big house.’ 
‘Oh!’ he says, ‘that’s it, is it? Lives here, eh?’ ‘Not 
been here long, though,’ I says. Then he seemed to 
get into a brown study like. ‘Well,’ he says, at 
last ‘it’s a queer thing!’ ‘What’s a queer thing?’ 
says I. ‘Why—seeing him here!’ he says. ‘Do you 
object to seeing him here?’ says I. ‘Not me!’ he 
says. ‘No business o’ mine, guv’nor. But I’ll tell 
you what,’ he says, confidential-like, ‘between you 
and me and the wall—I know them in Portsmouth 
that ’ud be main glad to know where he is!—I do 
so!’ ‘Oh?’ says I, ‘what for?’ ‘To ask him a ques¬ 
tion!’ he says. ‘Can’t you ask it?’ says I. ‘No!’ 
he says. And with that he drinks off his ale, and 
without another word, off he goes. He didn’t come 
in again, Mr. Cranage. And—I thought I’d tell 
you all about it.” 

“Very good of you, Holroyd,” I answered. “No 
doubt you concluded that when Jim the potman 
returned to Portsmouth last night he went straight 
to these people—whoever they are—-who are so 
anxious to question me? Eh?” 

“Well, that’s just what I did conclude, Mr. Cran¬ 
age,” he replied. “And—I just thought I’d let you 
know. They might be people you didn’t want to 
see—up yonder, at any rate.” 


THE THREE STRANGE MEN 


75 


“It’s utterly immaterial to me, Holroyd, whether I 
see them—whoever they are, for I’ve no idea—up at 
Renardsmere House, or in your parlour, or in the 
street,” I answered. “If you should have any 
strangers asking for me, here, send them up.” 

“Then—you know this Jim?” he asked, inquisi¬ 
tively. 

“He once served me with a dinner—at a business 
place in Portsmouth,” I replied, thinking it best to 
be candid. “But I haven’t the glint of a notion as 
to what his conversation with you meant—that 
is, in particular, though I may have in general. 
But as I said—if anybody asks for me, send them 
up.” 

I left him at that and went away, wondering. 
Putting things together, I came to a conclusion. 
Holliment, doubtless, had utterly vanished from his 
place of business. Probably the police had found 
evidence of the assault on his premises—the ruined 
staircase, the burst-in door, and so on. They had 
made enquiries—Jim the potman had no doubt told 
them of the stranger he had seen there, and they 
were anxious to find that stranger and to question 
him about his relations with Holliment. Now Jim 
had accidentally discovered my whereabouts. Of 
course he would report it. Taking everything into 
consideration I decided that I might expect a visit 
from the police at any minute. 

But the week-end passed and nothing happened. 
Then, on the Monday morning. Lady Renardsmere 


76 


RIPPLING RUBY 


suddenly took it into her head to go up to town, and, 
as usual, at a moment’s notice. 

Before leaving she gave me a message for Peggie 
Manson with respect to something or other that 
she wished done about Rippling Ruby, and about 
noon when I had finished my correspondence I 
walked across the valley to Manson Lodge, to de¬ 
liver it. I met Peggie on the Downs, where some 
of her precious charges were just then at walking 
exercise. We stood watching them for some little 
time; when Bradgett had finally marshalled them off 
towards their stables, Peggie asked me to lunch 
with her, and we were strolling slowly in the direction 
of the house, chatting about Lady Renardsmere and 
her peculiarities, when round the corner of a cop¬ 
pice which lay between us and the village came three 
strange men, who, after one glance in our direction, 
bore straight down on me. 

I had seen Peggie the day before, after church, 
and had told her of what Holroyd had told me about 
Jim the potman, and she had agreed that sooner or 
later I should have a visit from somebody. Here, 
undoubtedly, was the visit!—and she turned on me 
with a sharp exclamation. 

“Detectives!” 

Two of the three men no doubt were detectives. 
But it was only because of our knowledge of the 
affair that we took them to be detectives. Judged 
by merely outward appearance they might have 
been anything—commercial travellers, highly re- 


THE THREE STRANGE MEN 


77 


spectable tradesmen, military or naval men in mufti: 
there was no particular hand on them. One, a 
youngish fellow in a grey tweed suit, swinging a 
smart cane, looked rather of the professional 
cricketer type; another, a middle-aged man in a 
dark silk-faced overcoat and top hat, was a little 
more suggestive of his job, but both might have been 
taken for idlers enjoying a walk over the Downs; 
they looked innocent and innocuous enough as they 
crossed the close-cropped turf towards us. Still. . . . 

“Detectives !—sure as fate!” reiterated Peggie. 
“Be careful! And—the third man!” 

Now that they were nearer it was at the third 
man that I was looking. The first and second were 
Englishmen, unmistakably. But this was a China¬ 
man. And, from what I had at various times seen 
of Chinamen in London, I took him to be a Chinese 
gentleman. He was very precisely and correctly 
attired in the latest fashion—I should say his clothes 
had come out of a Savile Row establishment; every¬ 
thing about him, from his silk hat to his shining 
boots, was of a fine elegance, and the hand that 
carried his neatly-rolled umbrella was newly gloved. 
I looked closely at his gold-spectacled countenance 
as the three men drew nearer, and I was at once cer¬ 
tain of one thing—his was not the face that I had 
seen at Holliment’s window. 

The three uncovered and bowed politely as they 
came up to me, and the youngest of the three, look¬ 
ing enquiringly at me, smiled. 


78 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Mr. Cranage, I believe?” he asked. “Mr. James 
Cranage? Just so—may we have a word or two 
with you, Mr. Cranage? We’ve come out from 
Portsmouth to get it!” 

“If you’ll tell me who you are, and why you want 
a word or two with me, certainly!” I answered. 

“My name’s Spiller, sir,” he answered readily, and 
with another smile. “Detective Spiller, Portsmouth 
Police Force. This is Detective-Sergeant Jiffer- 
dene, of the Criminal Investigation Department, 
Scotland Yard—I daresay you’ve heard of him, 
Mr. Cranage. And this gentleman is Mr. Shen, of 
the Chinese Legation, in London.” 

“Very well, gentlemen,” I said. “Do you want to 
see me in private, or-” 

“We’ve nothing whatever to ask you that the lady 
can’t hear, Mr. Cranage,” replied Spiller, with a 
polite bow in Peggie’s direction. “Nothing!—if she 
cares to listen.” 

“All we want, Mr. Cranage,” added Jifferdene, 
with a comprehensive glance that took in both of 
us, “is a little information about certain doings on 
a certain date—at Portsmouth.” 

“Yes?” I said. “Well?” 

The two detectives glanced at each other: Jiffer¬ 
dene nodded to Spiller. 

“Well, it’s this, Mr. Cranage,” began Spiller. 
“You needn’t be in the least alarmed by our coming 
here, nor about answering our questions—we don’t 
want you, sir, and we know nothing against you— 4 



THE THREE STRANGE MEN 


79 


we want information, and if I were you, I should 
give it. Now, rather more than a fortnight ago, 
did you spend the better part of a day at Holliment’s 
shop—a general dealer’s place and coal office—in 
Portsmouth?” 

“I did indeed!” said I. 

“The potman from the Admiral Hawke brought 
your dinner there?” he suggested. 

“He did!” I answered. 

“And your tea, I believe?” he went on. “Now, 
Mr. Cranage, will you just tell me how you came 
to be there at all, and exactly what happened while 
you were there?” 

I looked at Peggie. She was quick to interpret 
the meaning of that look, and just as quick to 
answer. 

“I should tell them everything!” she said. 

“Good advice, miss!” exclaimed Spiller. “Mr. 
Cranage couldn’t do better.” 

“It will take some little time,” I remarked. “A 
good deal happened. However. . .” 

Standing there on the Downs, with Portsmouth 
itself showing ghost-like and hazy in the far dis¬ 
tance, I told these three the whole story, from the 
moment of my meeting Quartervayne on the Clarence 
Pier to that wherein I woke up at the point of Miss 
Manson’s hunting-crop. The two detectives occa¬ 
sionally made notes in their pocket-books; Mr. Shen 
listened with true Oriental inscrutableness; now and 
then I looked at him, but his face remained gravely 


80 


RIPPLING RUBY 


polite and utterly unreadable. And at last the 
story came to its end, and the detectives put away 
their memoranda. 

“And you never heard Holliment give any reason 
for all this, Mr. Cranage?” asked Spiller. 

“No definite reason—no!” I replied. 

“But he seemed to be desperately frightened, eh?” 

“He was certainly about as badly frightened as a 
man can be.” 

“Lest the Chinaman whose face you saw at the 
window should get in?” 

“I suppose so. But then, he was frightened long 
before that. He became mortally frightened as 
soon as ever he got Quartervayne’s note.” 

“Well, you were with him a fair lot, Mr. Cranage! 
Didn’t he drop anything that gave you an idea as 
to the causes of his fright?” 

“No!—nothing whatever. I made out—got a 
notion you know—that for some reason or other 
the Chinaman who had looked in at the window 
wanted to get at him and I suppose at Quarter- 
vayne. But he didn’t tell me why.” 

The two detectives exchanged a whisper or two; 
then Jifferdene spoke to Mr. Shen. And Mr. Shen 
turned to me. 

“You are quite sure that the face you saw at the 
window was that of a Chinaman?” he asked in per¬ 
fect English and a soft, gentle voice. 

“I’m quite sure of that!” I answered promptly. 
“Quite sure!” 


THE THREE STRANGE MEN 


81 


“You are familiar with the physiognomy?” he 
enquired with a smile. 

“I have seen a great many of your countrymen 
in London,” I replied. “Both in the West End and 
in the Limehouse district. Oh, yes!—he was a 
Chinaman. Besides, Holliment, all through our 
conversation, referred to him as a Chinaman.” 

“Do you think you could recognise him?” he asked. 

“That I should hardly like to say,” I answered. 
“I’m doubtful about it. You must remember that 
I only saw him for a second—through the window.” 

“And again, I think, when he and the other men 
broke into the staircase,” he remarked. 

“Yes,” I agreed, “but that was in the light of 
street lamps and so in a poor light. I merely saw 
that it was a Chinaman who broke in, with others— 
not Chinamen—behind him.” 

“Holliment,” he continued. “He did not refer to 
the Chinaman by name?—any particular name?” 

“Oh, no—certainly not!” said I. “I heard no 
name.” 

Mr. Shen bowed as a sign that he had done with 
me, and I turned to the others. They asked a few 
questions about the wrecked car, and if we had heard 
any rumours about Holliment and Quartervayne 
having been seen in the neighbourhood on the morn¬ 
ing of my being deposited in it, and when I had an¬ 
swered them they went away as unceremoniously as 
they had arrived. 

“That’s only made the mystery all the greater.” 


82 


RIPPLING RUBY 


remarked Peggie as we turned towards the house. 
“There’s some big business at the back of all that. 
Chinese Legation!—why should an official come 
down from there?—seems like a State affair.” 

“We shall hear more yet,” I said. 

But I heard no more for some days—heard no 
more of anything. Things went on quietly and as 
usual at Renardsmere House. Then, one morning, 
as I was writing letters, a footman came in with a 
card bearing the inscription Mr. Percy Neamore. 

“Gentleman in the hall, sir—wishes to see her 
Ladyship, on most important business,” he said. 

It was my job to do the preliminary interviewing 
of callers of this sort. I picked up the card and went 
into the hall. There, looking inquisitively about him, 
stood an immaculately attired, very self-assured 
young Jew. 


CHAPTER VII 

THE CHEQUE FOR £10,000 

The hall door being open, I saw at a glance how 
Mr. Percy Neamore, whoever he was, had contrived 
to present himself at Renardsmere House so early 
in the morning: at the foot of the terrace steps 
stood a conveyance which I knew to have been hired 
from our nearest station—it was the only vehicle to 
be had there. Evidently, then, our visitor had come 
down from town by the first morning train—which 
seemed to argue that his business was urgent. I 
tried to size him up as I walked along the hall to 
him; he was, as I have said, immaculately attired, 
perhaps, a little over-dressed if anything, and full 
of complacent self-assurance—certainly a Jew, and 
with something about him that suggested either 
money or diamonds . His manners were good and 
he bowed and smiled politely as I drew near. 

44 You wish to see Lady Renardsmere—person¬ 
ally?” I enquired, glancing at the card which I held 
in my hand. 

He bowed and smiled again—suavely. 

44 0n business,” he answered. “Private business.” 

83 


84 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Lady Renardsmere is leaving for town in half- 
an-hour or so,” I remarked. “I really don’t know if 
she’ll see anybody this morning. As a rule she sees 
no one—on business—without an appointment. I 
am her private secretary—can’t you tell me what 
your business is ?” 

He gave me another suave but firm smile at that, 
and shook his very black, curly head. 

“I’m afraid not,” he replied. “Sorry, but my 
business is with no one but Lady Renardsmere.” 

“Does she know you?” I asked. 

“Well—no!” he answered after a second’s reflec¬ 
tion. “But—may I have my card a minute?” 

I gave the card to him, and he drew out a gold 
pencil-case and wrote something underneath his 
name. 

“If Lady Renardsmere sees that,” he said confi¬ 
dently—“she’ll understand when she sees that.” 

Upon that I opened the door of a morning room 
near by, and asking him to be seated, went off to 
find Lady Renardsmere. She was just finishing 
breakfast, and had come down ready dressed for 
her journey to town. I gave her the card and ex¬ 
plained that its presenter was awaiting her pleasure. 
I added that he wouldn’t tell me what his business 
was. 

“Neamore?” she said, glancing at the name. 
“Don’t know him!” Then she looked at the pencilled 
words beneath, at which I myself had not troubled 
to look. Her tone altered. “Oh!” she continued. 


THE CHEQUE FOR £10,00 


85 


“Just so! Very well—take him into my office, 
Cranage.” 

The room which Lady Renardsmere called her 
office was a small apartment opening out of the hall. 
It was more like a man’s den than a woman’s boudoir 
and might have been taken for a tool-shed more 
easily than for either. There Lady Renardsmere 
kept her own gardening implements, her gardening 
garb and shoes, her guns, fishing-rods, and all sorts 
of out-door things; there, too, she had shelves full 
of books about racing and a set of Ruff’s Guide: 
there also, was a big desk, stuffed with papers, 
chiefly relating to her stud and its doings; at that 
desk, whereat I presented myself every morning, she 
transacted all her business. Here I conducted Mr. 
Percy Neamore, and after digging a chair out of the 
accumulated confusion, bade him wait; a few minutes 
later, through the open door of my own office-room, 
close by, I saw Lady Renardsmere go to him. 

The proceedings of the next half-hour were—for 
that house—remarkable. About ten minutes after 
Lady Renardsmere had joined her visitor, Neamore 
came out of the room, bareheaded, and looking emi¬ 
nently pleased with himself, and walking out of the 
front door to his conveyance paid its driver, who at 
once mounted his box and drove away. Then Nea¬ 
more went back to Lady Renardsmere, and for the 
next quarter of an hour they were closely closeted. 
At the end of that time she came out and into my 


room. 


86 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Cranage,” she said, “give me my A account 
cheque-book—I may want it in town.” 

Since my arrival at Renardsmere House I had 
kept all its mistress’s cheque books: she had several, 
all referring to different accounts, the one she now 
asked for related to what I considered her own 
private account. I got it out of the safe and handed 
it over; she put it away in her hand-bag, and merely 
remarking that she supposed she’d be home some¬ 
time during the evening or night, went back to her 
visitor. Ten minutes later her car came round to 
the front door, and presently she and Mr. Percy 
Neamore emerged from the sanctum and went out 
to it. Having a question to put to her before she 
left, I went out, too. To my astonishment Neamore 
had already entered the car and was making himself 
mighty comfortable in one of its luxurious corners; 
Lady Renardsmere, still on the terrace steps, was 
giving orders to her chauffeur. 

“Go straight to the Ritz, Walker,” she com¬ 
manded. “This gentleman and I are lunching there. 
Get me there by one o’clock, sharp. After that you 
can take this car round to Park Lane, and I’ll ring 
you up when I want you, later on.” 

A moment later the big car moved off, and I went 
back into the house considerably mystified. Who 
on earth was Mr. Percy Neamore that Lady 
Renardsmere should carry him off to town, and go 
to lunch with him at the Ritz? Until three-quarters 
of an hour previously he had been an absolute 


THE CHEQUE FOR £10,000 


87 


stranger to her—why this sudden intimacy? Was 
it business?—and if so, what business? I remem¬ 
bered Neamore’s card then, and his scribbling on it, 
and I went into Lady Renardsmere’s room to see if 
I could find it. There it lay on her desk, and I 
picked it up. But I got no information from what 
Neamore had written. What he had written, under¬ 
neath his own name, seemed to be the name of some 
firm or other—Gildenbaum and Roskin. I knew 
nothing about them—but somehow, they seemed to 
fit in with what I had seen of Neamore. 

Lady Renardsmere had not returned when I went 
to bed that night—which was pretty late—but she 
evidently came home during the small hours, for she 
was in her business room when I looked in at the 
usual time next morning. She went through her 
letters with me and gave me instructions about them; 
then, as I was leaving the room, she handed me the 
cheque-book which I had given her the day before. 
She made no reference to having made use of it, 
but later on, when I was about to put it back in the 
safe, I looked into it to see if she had drawn any 
cheque during her day in town. She had drawn one 
—there was the counterfoil. And according to that 
it had been a cheque for £10,000, payable to Percy 
Neamore. 

I must here explain a peculiarity, or fad, or prac¬ 
tice of Lady Renardsmere’s—whatever you like to 
call it. I have already said that she had several 
cheque-books, all relating to different accounts. It 


88 


RIPPLING RUBY 


was her strict rule whenever a cheque was paid out 
for anything, however large, however small the 
amount, to have particulars of the payment posted 
up on the counterfoil. Thus, if I paid Holroyd so 
much for his weekly account for hay, or straw, or 
horse-corn I had to enter up on the counterfoil the 
precise details; this practice was adhered to in the 
case of each cheque-book, and punctiliously observed 
by Lady Renardsmere herself as regards this private 
cheque-book which she had just restored to me. It 
was a rule which she never broke: that she was 
meticulously particular about sticking to. But she 
had broken it in this instance—there was nothing 
on the counterfoil to show why Lady Renardsmere 
had paid Mr. Percy Neamore ten thousand pounds. 

I am neither more inquisitive nor less inquisitive 
than the average man—which means that I possess 
a fair share of proper and reasonable curiosity. I 
was curious about this Neamore transaction—I 
wanted to know about it. And taking advantage of 
my position, and of my knowledge of her method of 
doing things, I carried the cheque-book back to Lady 
Renardsmere and indicated the last counterfoil. 

“No particulars have been entered up on this,” I 
said, in the most indifferent and casual tone I could 
affect, at the same time watching her narrowly. 
“There’s nothing but name and amount.” 

For about the only time that I remember during 
my connection with her, Lady Renardsmere showed 
herself taken aback. 


THE CHEQUE FOR £10,000 


89 


“Um—er—well, never mind it this time, Cranage,” 
she said almost apologetically. “It—it’s a little 
private transaction of my own.” 

“I drew your attention to it,” I said, “because it’s 
your strict rule to enter these particulars on coun¬ 
terfoils.” 

“I know—I know!” she answered hastily. “Quite 
right to point it out—that is my rule. But in this 
case—a private affair, as I said. Of course, I know 
what the cheque was paid for! All right, Cranage— 
you were quite right in drawing my attention to it.” 

So I got nothing out of that, and I was as wise as 
ever as to why she had paid Mr. Percy Neamore so 
large a sum. Perhaps, I thought, it was a betting 
transaction. I knew that Lady Renardsmere backed 
her fancy now and then, not only with regard to 
her own horses, but to those of other owners; I 
knew, too, that she was backing Rippling Ruby 
heavily to win the Derby. Possibly this ten thou¬ 
sand pounds was a sum placed in Neamore’s hands 
to be laid out amongst various turf commission 
agents. Only one thing was certain about it, how¬ 
ever—it had been paid, and Lady Renardsmere and 
Neamore were the only people who knew why. Yet— 
there seemed to be some mystery about the matter 
—Neamore’s coming was mysterious—his going up 
to town with Lady Renardsmere was mysterious— 
it was odd, too, that she couldn’t or wouldn’t fill up 
that counterfoil. 

However, there was more mystery at hand. I 


90 


RIPPLING RUBY 


used to lunch in my own sitting-room; just as I 
had finished that day and was slipping into an easy 
chair with my pipe and the newspaper, Lady 
Renardsmere sent for me. I found her in her office, 
and on the desk before her a small packet, neatly 
done up in stout notepaper and heavily sealed. By 
its side lay a letter, with a name and address 
sprawled all over the surface of the envelope in 
Lady Renardsmere’s super-sized handwriting. 

“Cranage,” she said, “you’ve had lunch? Then 
I want you to do something for me. You see this 
letter and small parcel? I want you to take them 
yourself to my solicitor, Mr. Pennithwaite, in Lin¬ 
coln’s Inn Fields.” 

“This afternoon?” I asked. 

“Just now,” she answered. “You can have the 
Rolls-Royce—Walker’s had his dinner, and he’ll 
run you up to town by half-past four. Penni¬ 
thwaite never leaves his office before five—you’ll 
catch him easily. But Cranage—” here she paused, 
and in the excess of what, I could see, was a real anx¬ 
iety, laid her hand on my arm as I stood by her— 
“Cranage!—promise me that you won’t stop the car 
and leave it anywhere—anywhere at all, on the way!” 

“Certainly, Lady Renardsmere!” I answered. 
“Why should I stop it?” 

“Oh, I don’t know!” she said. “Young men pull 
up, I suppose, to get a drink, or—that sort of thing. 
But you won’t, will you, Cranage? You’ll go 
straight from my door to Pennithwaite’s ?—you’ll 


THE CHEQUE FOR £10,000 


91 


take this parcel from my hand and this letter and 
think of nothing else until you’ve delivered them into 
his ?” 

“Of course, Lady Renardsmere!” I protested. 
“I’ll do exactly what you ask. Give your orders to 
Walker—he’s to go straight from here, without 
stop, to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” 

“Yes,” she said. “Very well—he’ll be ready in 
ten minutes. Thank you, Cranage. And—where 
will you put these?” 

I showed her. I put the parcel—a tiny, three- 
inch-square thing—in my trousers’ pocket; the let¬ 
ter in a breast pocket. 

“Shan’t even touch them myself, Lady Renards¬ 
mere, till I hand them to Mr. Pennithwaite,” I said. 
“Regard them as safe as—as safe can be.” 

“Good lad!” she replied, more cheerily. “I felt I 
could trust you. Well, now, when you’ve seen Pen¬ 
nithwaite, you’ll be free. Get dinner somewhere—a 
good one—make your own arrangements with 
Walker about bringing you back—anything, as long 
as you’ve delivered parcel and letter. Here!— 
that’ll pay for your dinner, my boy!” 

Before I could protest or stop her she had thrust 
a five-pound note into my hand and left the room. I 
went to get ready for my journey; when I came 
down again she was at the hall door, giving strict 
orders to Walker. 

“And after that you’ll take your orders from 
Mr. Cranage as to coming back,” she concluded. 


92 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“The present thing is—straight there without stop!” 

I got into the car and we moved off, Lady 
Renardsmere giving me a sort of half-warning, half- 
admonitory look as I raised my hat to her. I knew 
what she meant, it was a reminder of what she had 
said to me in her room. And as we cleared the vil¬ 
lage and struck out for the London and Portsmouth 
road six miles away across country, I wondered 
why she was so anxious that there should be no 
break in my journey between Renardsmere House 
and Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Those were not the days 
of highwaymen. But what was it that I was carry¬ 
ing to Mr. Pennithwaite ? Evidently something of 
great value or importance, small as it was. Did 
she fear that I might be stopped—in broad daylight, 
on a pleasant Springtide afternoon? The idea 
seemed ridiculous—and yet, her anxiety had been 
real enough, so real indeed that it communicated it¬ 
self to me in some degree, and my only concern was to 
get to town and discharge my commission as speedily 
as possible. And I had nothing to complain of in 
Walker’s share of the business—striking into the 
London road at Petersfield, he bowled along that 
famous highway at a rare turn of speed, and event¬ 
ually turned out of Kingsway into Lincoln’s Inn 
Fields at precisely twenty-five minutes to five. 

Mr. Pennithwaite’s office (Pennithwaite, Mallaby 
and Pennithwaite) was on the south side of the 
Fields—one of those old houses which have survived 
the senseless craze of rebuilding and restoration, 


THE CHEQUE FOR £10,000 


93 


and remain to show ns how much more taste in archi¬ 
tecture our great-grandfathers had than we have. 
And Mr. Pennithwaite was in, and received me in a 
great room with a beautifully moulded ceiling and 
a fine fireplace—he was the sort of man who would 
have looked out of place in any other surroundings, 
being himself of a solemn and old-fashioned type— 
and to him, having been assured that he was Mr. 
Pennithwaite, I delivered up letter and parcel. He 
read the letter in my presence; then, taking the 
parcel with him, he retired into an inner room. He 
remained there some little time; when he came back 
—having presumably left the parcel or its contents 
behind—he sat down at his desk, rapidly wrote 
something on a sheet of letter-paper, enclosed and 
sealed it, and handed it to me with a polite bow. 

“Just to let Lady Renardsmere know that you 
have safely delivered letter and parcel,” he said, 
with a smirk. Then he inspected me more carefully. 
“Her ladyship’s new secretary, I think?” he added. 

“Just so, Mr. Pennithwaite,” I answered. 

He rose and offered me his hand. 

“You’ll find her a very good mistress,” he said, 
“eccentric—but good-hearted. I wish you good 
day.” 

I went out to Walker and the car, immensely re¬ 
lieved somehow, to have got rid of that mysterious 
little parcel. Walker and I arranged matters. He 
was to take the car round to Lady Renardsmere’s 
town house in Park Lane, get his tea there, and meet 


94 


RIPPLING RUBY 


me at a certain spot near Piccadilly Circus at pre¬ 
cisely half-past-eight. He went off—and I strolled 
idly away, to enjoy a spell of liberty. I dawdled up 
the Strand, took a look round the Haymarket and 
Coventry Street, and finally, at just after six o’clock, 
turned into the Trocadero, bent on a good and lei¬ 
surely dinner. 

Early as it was the place was already pretty full, 
and during the next hour it became fuller—by seven 
the big room in which I was dining was not far from 
being packed. My long ride had made me hungry, 
however, and I paid little attention to the people 
near me. But as my appetite became satisfied, I 
began to look round and about, and suddenly, at 
the far end of the room, at a table set in a corner, 
but full in the light, I saw Neamore, and with him— 
Holliment! 

There was no mistake on my part about it—there 
they were, dining together. The room was not so 
big, nor the distance so great, that I could not see 
them clearly. They had a big bottle of champagne 
between them, and they were eating and drinking 
voraciously. But also they were in close and earnest 
conversation, so close that they gave no attention 
to anything or anybody outside themselves. Holli¬ 
ment !—with Neamore, to whom Lady Renardsmere 
had paid ten thousand pounds the day before! For 
what ? 

For the half of a second I thought of going up 
to Holliment and accosting him. But the impulse 


THE CHEQUE FOR £10,000 


95 


passed as quickly as it had arisen. No!—I had 
accidentally discovered enough for that time. Holli- 
ment was in London, and he knew Neamore. I should 
hear more of both, yet. And lest he should see me, 
or Neamore should, as soon as I had finished my 
dinner I paid my bill, left the place by the nearest 
door, and went elsewhere for coffee and a cigar. It 
seemed to me that at that juncture it was best that 
neither of these men should set eyes on me. 

I met Walker and the car half way down Lower 
Regent Street at half-past-eight, and we shook off 
London and went home. Lady Renardsmere was 
still up when we arrived, and though she said little 
I could see that she was relieved and pleased when 
I gave her the solicitor’s note. But she said nothing 
about the nature of my errand, nor did I tell her 
what I had seen at the Trocadero. I was still think¬ 
ing about that matter next morning, when, about 
eleven o’clock, I was fetched out into the hall to 
see somebody, who, said the footman, declared he 
must have speech with me immediately. 

The somebody was Detective Spiller, from Ports¬ 
mouth. He came close up, whispering. 

“Mr. Cranage, you’ll have to come with me!” he 
said. “Up to town, at once!—I’ve got a car out¬ 
side. You haven’t heard anything, of course. Well, 
that man Holliment!—you know? He was found 
in the West End early this morning, dead!—Mur¬ 
dered !” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE FIRST MURDER 

I was so taken aback by this curt announcement 
that for the moment I could do nothing but stand 
and stare at its maker, conscious that the footman 
who had fetched me out, and the butler, who had just 
come into the hall, were, in their turn, staring at 
me. But suddenly I found my tongue. 

“Holliment? Murdered!” I exclaimed. “Impossi¬ 
ble ! Why, I saw him, myself, only last night!” 

“No impossibility about it, Mr. Cranage,” re¬ 
turned Spiller, coolly. “Plenty of time in which 
to get murdered between last night and this morn¬ 
ing. But look here!” 

He pulled out a telegram and opening it handed 
it to me. I confess that my hand shook as I took 
it from him—already my imagination was at work, 
and I saw Holliment being slowly and surely tracked 
down. . . . 

“That’s from Jifferdene—the man who was with 
me and the Chinese gentleman the other day,” said 
Spiller. “Read it!” 

I read: 


96 


THE FIRST MURDER 


97 


“Man confidently believed to be Holliment 
found murdered in West End early this morning 
get Cranage and bring up here quickly as possible 
urgent.” 

“Yes,” I said, “but he only says—confidently be¬ 
lieved. It might be. However—I suppose I must go 
with you. Yet—why? There are others—must be 
—who can identify Holliment as well as I can. 
Portsmouth people—lots.” 

“There’s nobody in Portsmouth who knows what 
you know, Mr. Cranage—about his last days there,” 
replied the detective. “Come on—let’s be off! I’ve 
got a good car outside—we’ll go straight there by 
road.” 

“Come out on the terrace,” I said, leading him 
to the door, out of earshot of the already curious 
servants. “Look here!” I went on. “What excuse 
shall I make to Lady Renardsmere? I don’t want 
to tell her I’m mixed up in a murder business—at 
any rate not until I know more about it.” 

Spiller nodded and considered matters. 

“Tell her a friend—or acquaintance—of yours 
has met with a very serious accident in London and 
your presence is needed,” he said. “Ask her for a 
couple of days’ leave—you may have to sta}^ the 
night. That’ll do, surely? Those fellows in there 
don’t know me—nobody knows me hereabouts. 
You can explain things to her afterwards—if it’s 
necessary.” 


98 


RIPPLING RUBY 


I went off to find Lady Renardsmere in the garden. 
Much to my relief she gave me leave immediately 
without asking any questions whatever—she even 
offered me the services of Walker and a fast car. I 
explained that the man who had come to fetch me 
had a car at the door, and in a few minutes Spiller 
and I were off. 

“Pretty hot business this, Mr. Cranage,” ob¬ 
served the detective when we were fairly away. “So 
far it’s beyond me! What do you make of it?” 

“I!” I exclaimed. “Good Heavens, man, I know 
nothing of it beyond what I told you! I should 
think you—and that chap from Scotland Yard— 
what do you call him?—Jifferdene?—you’re the men 
to know things about it!” 

“Aye, well,” he remarked with a dry laugh. “I 
can assure you we know next to nothing. That 
Chinese gentleman who came with us to see you—if 
anybody knows anything, he does. But those 
Easterns!—Lord, you might as well try to get but¬ 
ter out of a dog’s mouth as news out of them, if 
they don’t want to give it!” 

“How did he come to be with you, anyway?” I 
enquired. “I’ve wondered a good deal about that.” 

“I’ll tell you,” he answered. “He turned up, with 
Jifferdene, at our headquarters at Portsmouth a 
few days before we saw you on those Downs. He 
wanted to get news of some Chinaman, a Chinaman, 
who, he said, was believed to have been in Portsmouth 
of late and whom the Chinese Legation were very 


THE FIRST MURDER 


99 


anxious to lay hands on. I was told off to make 
enquiries. Eventually—really within twenty-four 
hours, I found that a Chinaman, evidently a re¬ 
spectable man, had been seen once or twice in com¬ 
pany with Holliment. We went to Holliment’s place 
and found there’d been strange doings there and that 
Holliment had vanished. Then we made enquiries 
round about, and that potman at the Admiral Hawke 
told us about a strange young gentleman who’d been 
at Holliment’s place all one day. Two or three days 
later he came to us and said he’d found that young 
gentleman—you—and told us where you were. So 
we came up to Renardsmere—and heard from you 
about the Chinaman who looked in at Holliment’s 
window, and afterwards broke in with other fellows. 
See?” 

“And is that all you know?” I asked. 

“All I know up to now,” he replied. “Mr. Shen 
went off with that much news, and Jifferdene with 
him. I’ve heard nothing more until I got this wire.” 

“Then it really comes to this,” said I. “What 
you three were after was not Holliment, but some 
Chinaman ?” 

“That’s about it,” he answered. “A Chinaman! 
I tell you—the Chinese Legation want him—who¬ 
ever he is—pretty badly, so much so that they set 
Scotland Yard to find him. But why they want 
him, and who he is, and what Holliment has or had 
to do with it, I’ve no more notion than an unborn 
baby!” 


100 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Spiller!” I said. “I’ll lay you anything you like 
that if it’s Holliment that’s murdered it was that 
Chinaman murdered him!” 

“I should say that’s a certainty,” he remarked 
with a laugh. “You’d be safe in laying a million to 
one! But—what object?” 

“I don’t know,” I answered. “All I know is that 
I never saw a man in such absolute thorough fear as 
Holliment was in when I told him I’d seen that chap’s 
yellow face and slant eyes at the window! He was 
in deadly fear of his life, Spiller—his life!” 

“Well, the chap’s got him !” he said. “You’ll find 
it’ll be Holliment. But Jifferdene will know more 
by the time we get up.” 

We found Jifferdene awaiting us when we got to 
Scotland Yard. He took us to a little waiting- 
room and closed the door on the three of us. And 
by that time, having debated on it with myself in 
the intervals of my conversation with Spiller in 
coming along, I had made up my mind not to men¬ 
tion Neamore in connection with Holliment—yet, 
at any rate. For if I mentioned Neamore, I should 
have to mention Lady Renardsmere, and I didn’t 
want to. And after all, Neamore might have nothing 
to do with this business—Holliment, doubtless, knew 
plenty of men in London. 

“I don’t think there’s any doubt that this man is 
Holliment—from the description I had of him in 
Portsmouth,” remarked Jifferdene, when he’d shut 
the door. “I should say there’s no doubt about it.” 


THE FIRST MURDER 


101 


“Mr. Cranage saw him last night,” observed Spil- 
ler with a nod at me. 

“Oh?” said Jifferdene. “Where was that?” 

“At the Trocadero—getting his dinner,” said I. 
“That was about seven o’clock.” 

“Did you speak to him?” he asked. 

“I didn’t!—I didn’t want to. After my recent 
adventures with Holliment,” I went on, “I didn’t 
want to have anything more to do with him. He 
didn’t see me—and I left the place.” 

“Well,” said Jifferdene, “I want you to identify 
him, anyway, Mr. Cranage. Yes—I know there are 
plenty of other people who could do that, but there 
are particular reasons why you should do it, and 
why you should be here to help me at this point. 
You’re the only person I know of who saw the China¬ 
man—who—in my opinion, is the murderer.” 

“Where did it happen?” enquired Spiller. 

“Up Paddington way,” replied Jifferdene. “If 
you know Maida Vale, you’ll know that there’s a 
stretch of the Regent’s Canal runs between Edge- 
w r are Roard and Warwick Crescent. The roadway 
on one side is called Blomfield Road; on the other 
Maida Hill West. He was found lying by the canal 
wall in Blomfield Road, about twenty yards from 
the bridge that connects Warwick Avenue with Har¬ 
row Road. That was at three o’clock this morning 
—a policeman found him. He’d been dead half-an- 
hour or so, according to the police surgeon. Knifed! 
—and the man who knifed him knew where to strike, 


102 


RIPPLING RUBY 


too! But the object? That’s a puzzle! Every 
pocket in his clothing had been turned out; some of 
his effects, watch, money, and so on were found 
aside on the path as of no consequence; his coat and 
waistcoat had been ripped up here and there—it’s 
very evident the murderer had been looking for some¬ 
thing. But whether he got it or not—who knows ?” 

“No clue, of course?” suggested Spiller. 

“None! Not a scrap of a clue,” said Jifferdene. 
“Of course, the police are making extensive enquiries 
round about, to see if they can hear of his having 
been seen round that quarter late last night, and 
in whose company, but up to now, I’ve heard 
nothing.” 

“Where is he?” asked Spiller. 

“Paddington Mortuary. We’ll go there, and get 
Mr. Cranage to identify him,” replied Jifferdene. “I 
forgot to say there were no papers of any sort on 
him. Perhaps the murderer carried them off—if he 
had any. Might have had a pocketbook, of course. 
However, we’ll go. But you’ve had a longish ride, 
and it’s past one. What do you say to a bit of 
lunch first?” 

We went round to a restaurant in Parliament 
Street, and I yas speedily made aware that their 
professional duties, however gruesome they might be 
occasionally, made no difference to my companions’ 
appetites. They ate and drank heartily—so I 
followed their example, putting away from my 
thoughts all anticipations of the unpleasant task 


THE FIRST MURDER 


103 


before me. And to do them justice they talked no 
shop over their lunch—instead we talked of racing, 
and I advised them to put their last sixpence on 
Rippling Ruby, of whom, from personal acquaint¬ 
ance, I gave them a glowing account. We got on 
very well together—and at last we paid our bills, 
went out again into the bright Spring afternoon 
and set off in a taxi-cab to Paddington—to get it 
over. 

“One good look’ll do, Mr. Cranage,” whispered 
Jifferdene, as we walked into the Mortuary. 

“No need to hang about!—you’ll know if it’s the 
man or not. Now then . . .” 

That was Holliment. He was very still, and very 
white, and very awful. . . . 

“That’s he!” I whispered. “Good Heavens !— 
and last night . . .” 

We went out again. We walked across Padding¬ 
ton Green in silence. 

“Where it happened,” observed Jifferdene, sud¬ 
denly, “is only about five minutes walk from here—- 
up behind those flats. But I don’t know that it’s 
worth while going to look—nothing to see, of course, 
but the mere spot. And there’s more to do yet, 
Mr. Cranage. I want you to go with me now, to 
see a Chinese gentleman who’s staying at the Lang- 
ham Hotel, and then to-night I want to take you 
down Limehouse way.” 

“I suppose I’m in your hands,” I assented. 

“Well, we’ll get it through as quickly as we can, 


104 


RIPPLING RUBY 


as far as you’re concerned,” he said. “As for you, 
Spiller, you’d better get back to Portsmouth and 
go on with those enquiries there—find out more about 
Holliment and that Chinaman—there must be more 
to get at. Look here!” he drew Spiller aside and 
for a few minutes talked earnestly with him. “Get 
at that, if you can,” he concluded, “and, of course, 
keep me posted.” 

Spiller said good day to me, and went off to 
catch a train home; Jifferdene, after we had walked 
a little further, hailed a taxi-cab, and bade its driver 
go to the Langham Hotel. He turned to me confi¬ 
dentially when we had set off. 

“This is one of the queerest cases I’ve ever been 
engaged in, Mr. Cranage,” he said. “It’s all the 
queerer because of these Orientals being mixed up 
in it. Spiller tells me he’s told you all he knows; 
well, its a fact that I know very little more! But I’ve 
got an idea. Spiller told you, didn’t he, that it 
was the Chinese Legation who set me on to the track 
of this Chinaman who was certainly known to Holli¬ 
ment in Portsmouth? They did—but there’s some¬ 
body behind the Chinese Legation, and that some¬ 
body, in my opinion, is an old Chinese gentleman— 
some big pot in his own country, I think—who’s now 
staying at the Langham. I’ve seen him once, in 
company with Mr. Shen, and you and I’ll go and 
see him again now. He knows what it’s all about. 
But I’m damned if I do!” 

“But if this old gentleman really knows what it’s 


THE FIRST MURDER 


105 


all about,” I said, “can’t you, in view of the present 
state of things, get him to tell? Can’t you make 
him tell? Seeing that it’s got to murder-” 

“Aye, but these Easterns don’t seem to attach so 
much importance to human life as we do, Mr. 
Cranage!” he answered. “And as to persuading 
him to speak, or making him speak—well, you wait 
till you see him! I haven’t seen her myself, but it’s 
my belief that the Sphinx would look as likely to 
sing the last music-hall ditty as this old atomy is 
to tell anything if he doesn’t want to!” 

“And who is he?” I asked. “You say some big 
pot in his own country. What’s he doing here? And 
does he speak English?” 

“He speaks English quite well—as well as that 
Mr. Shen does, and that’s good enough—been at one 
of our universities has Mr. Shen, I understand,” he 
replied. “As to what the old gentleman’s doing here, 
I don’t know, but I fancy, from what bit I’ve seen 
that he’s some big commercial magnate. He’s got 
a suite of rooms at the Langham, and some of our 
leading financiers go there to see him. What his 
precise rank, state, and so on may be, I don’t know 
—I know him, and they know him at the Langham 
as Mr. Cheng.” 

“Mr. Cheng—I’ll remember,” said I. “And— 
how far is Mr. Cheng acquainted with the details 
of this case?” 

“As far as that Holliment knew a certain China¬ 
man in Portsmouth recently, and that you, when in 



106 


RIPPLING RUBY 


charge of Holliment’s shop saw a Chinaman look 
in at the window, that Holliment was frightened 
to death on hearing of that, and that later a China¬ 
man followed by a gang of roughs, broke in, where¬ 
upon Holliment fled. That,” said Jifferdene, “is 
what Mr. Cheng knows up to now. And now Pm go¬ 
ing to tell him that Holliment has been murdered.” 

“To see if it will make him speak, eh?” I suggested. 

“Well, perhaps that’s in my mind,” he admitted. 
“But—he won’t speak unless he wants to. I only 
wish I could get at what’s behind his old parchment 
face!” 

Just then we pulled up at the Langham, and 
presently Jifferdene sent up his card to Mr. Cheng. 
We were not kept waiting very long—within a few 
minutes a young Chinaman in English dress ap¬ 
peared, greeted the detective politely, and taking us 
upstairs ushered us into one of a fine suite of rooms 
and begging us to be seated remarked that Mr. 
Cheng would see us personally before long. Then 
he disappeared and we waited—five, ten minutes. A 
door opened, a distinguished-looking man came out, 
crossed the room and left it by the door at which 
we had entered. Jifferdene bent towards me. 

“Know that man, Mr. Cranage ?” he asked. 

“I? No !” I replied. "“Who is he?” 

“Lord Mickleborough—chairman of the Oriental 
Development Company—one of the biggest finan¬ 
cial pots in the City!” he answered. “His firm-” 

He suddenly interrupted himself, twisting sharply 



THE FIRST MURDER 


107 


in his chair and then rising quickly to his feet at a 
slight, almost imperceptible sound behind us. I 
turned and rose too—there, framed in the doorway 
which Lord Mickleborough had just left, stood a 
venerable Chinaman, clad in his native dress. He 
made a striking and picturesque figure, but it was 
neither the colour nor the unusualness of it that 
struck me so much as the apparent great age of the 
slightly bowed form and the parchment-hued, deeply 
seamed face about it. He looked to be at least a 
hundred years old, and I found myself bowing to 
him as if in reverence. He bowed back, smiling a 
little, and I saw then that his eyes were as alert and 
as bright as those of a young man. 

“Please to walk in.” 

The voice, gentle, low, was yet clear and firm. 
We followed him into an inner room; he pointed to 
two chairs, drew another up exactly in front of us, 
sat down, folded his hands in his sleeves and looked 
at Jifferdene. 

“You have news for me?” he asked. 

“Yes, Mr. Cheng, yes, sir,” answered Jifferdene. 
“That man Holliment, of whom I have told you 
before, has been murdered.” 

There was not so much as the flicker of an eyelid 
in the queer, wrinkled old face before us: Jifferdene 
might have been remarking on the beauty of the 
weather. 

“Where was this? In Portsmouth—or in Lon¬ 
don?” enquired Mr. Cheng. 


108 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“London, sir, this morning, about half-past two 
or three o’clock, knifed, Mr. Cheng—stabbed to 
death. But not for robbery, sir—his money and 
valuables lay on the path at his side,” said Jiffer- 
dene. “His pockets had all been turned out, and a 
good deal of his clothing ripped up, as if the mur¬ 
derer had been searching for something.” 

Still there was not a sign on that immobile coun¬ 
tenance. But the eyes were alert, watchful, keen. 

“Have you any clue to the murderer?” 

“None, sir, so far! But I want to suggest some¬ 
thing to you, Mr. Cheng. In my opinion the mur¬ 
derer is that Chinaman who looked in at Holliment’s 
window, and who is probably the man you want to 
find.” 

Mr. Cheng bowed his head. 

“It may be so,” he said. 

Jifferdene indicated my presence. 

“This is the young gentleman who saw that 
Chinaman’s face at the window,” he remarked. 

Mr. Cheng looked at me. For some reason or 
other his venerable countenance grew bland. 

“But the young gentleman could not positively 
recognise the man again, I think?” he said. 

“No!” admitted Jifferdene. “So he says. All 
the same, Mr. Cheng, we’re gping to try for that 
man!” 

“By what means?” enquired Mr. Cheng. 

“Well—there’s the Chinese quarter, sir,” replied 
Jifferdene. “I’ll begin with that. And Mr. Cheng! 


THE FIRST MURDER 


109 


—I know you’re anxious to trace and find some par¬ 
ticular countryman of yours. Can’t you give me 
some little help, sir—a little description, now?” 

Mr. Cheng remained motionless" for a full minute. 
Then he leaned nearer. 

“The man I want,” he said quietly, “has lost the 
lower half of his left ear!” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 

I started to my feet with a sudden, sharp ex¬ 
clamation. Jifferdene stared at me—wonderingly. 

But the astute old Chinaman smiled. He gave 
the detective a knowing look, at the same time nod¬ 
ding his head sidewise in my direction. 

“The young gentleman’s memory is stirred!” he 
said in his quiet, even tones. “He—remembers !” 

“Yes !” I said. “I do remember now!—now that 
you recall it. I couldn’t have said, positively, that 
the man was disfigured in the way you mention, but 
I do remember that in the mere glimpse I had of him 
I noticed that there was some disfigurement of the 
left side of his face—a scar—something!” 

“The lower half of his left ear,” repeated Mr. 
Cheng. “A sword cut.” 

Jifferdene who had listened intently to this, 
sighed. Whether it was a sigh of relief, or of per¬ 
plexity, I could not tell. 

“Well!” he said. “That seems to narrow things ! 
A Chinaman who has lost the lower half of his left 
ear, eh? There are not so many of your countrymen 
in London as all that, Mr. Cheng! But now, sir, if 
110 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 


111 


you’d only give me a little more information? The 
man’s name, now?” 

But Mr. Cheng’s face became more Sphinx-like 
than ever. 

“By this time,” he answered, “he will have another 
name.” 

“No doubt,” assented Jifferdene. “Still—how¬ 
ever, there’s a more important question. Why do 
you want him, Mr. Cheng?” 

Mr. Cheng blinked at us. 

“The first thing,” he said amiably, “is to find him.” 

Jifferdene realised that he was up against a wall 
through which there was no passing, and over which 
it was hopeless to attempt to climb. He folded his 
hands over his waistcoat and twiddled his thumbs, 
looking steadily at the old Chinaman. 

“I thought of combing out the Chinese quarter— 
Limehouse way,” he suggested. 

“You will not find him there,” said Mr. Cheng. 
“ Al l the haunts of my countrymen in London have 
been thoroughly searched—by ourselves.” 

“Where is he, then?” asked Jifferdene, almost 
despairingly. 

“Probably sheltered by some countryman or coun¬ 
trymen of yours,” replied the old man. “I think he 
will have accomplices. It may have been an accom¬ 
plice—not necessarily himself—who murdered the 
man Holliment.” 

“If only I knew what Holliment had been mur¬ 
dered for!” muttered Jifferdene. “Not mere ordi- 


112 


RIPPLING RUBY 


nary robbery—that’s flat. Holliment had a gold 
watch on him that was well worth fifty pound! It 
was flung on the pavement beside his body. And 
money—he’d a lot of money—that was lying about, 
too. What did the murderer want?” 

Mr. Cheng smiled more blandly than ever. 

“It is a more interesting question—did he find 
what he wanted?” he said in his gentlest tones. 

“Suppose he didn’t, Mr. Cheng?” suggested Jiffer- 
dene. 

“In that case,” murmured the old man, “there will 
be another murder—perhaps two—perhaps three.” 

Jifferdene stared at him: Mr. Cheng returned 
the stare steadily. The detective rose from his chair. 

“I think we’d better get busy,” he said. “Come on, 
Mr. Cranage—much obliged to you, Mr. Cheng. I 
wish, though, you’d give us more information.” 

The old man said nothing. He walked in front 
of us to the outer door of his suite, and opening it 
stood aside with a polite bow. But as I was about 
to pass out, he suddenly laid a claw-like hand on 
my arm. 

“You are very young,” he said. “Have a care of 
yourself!” 

“Am I in danger, sir?” I asked. 

“You were on one side of the window,” he answered 
with a quick, meaning glance. “There was a man 
on the other who—will stop at nothing.” 

Then he bowed us out, closed the door on us, and 
we went downstairs and out into the street. 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 


113 


“Look here, Jifferdene!” I said, as soon as we 
were in the sunlight. “I’ve had enough of this, and 
I hope you’ve done with me. There’s too much mur¬ 
der and suggestion of murder in the air! I shall be 
glad to go home.” 

“You’d only have to come up again, to-morrow, 
or the day after, Mr. Cranage,” he replied, coolly. 

“Why?” I demanded. 

“Inquest—on Holliment,” he answered laconi¬ 
cally. 

“What have I got to do with the inquest?” I 
asked. 

“You’ll be one of the most important witnesses,” 
he replied. “You’ll have to tell all about that affair 
at Portsmouth. So you’ll have to stay—a day or 
two, anyway. But don’t you be afraid—I’ll keep 
you company during the day, and it’s not likely that 
any harm’ll come to you in a good hotel at night.” 

“It’s a confounded nuisance!” I exclaimed. “What 
did that old Chinaman mean by his last words ?” 

“I think he meant that this chap who’s lost part 
of his ear is after something which Holliment had in 
his possession, and that he—or his accomplices— 
will go through everybody and anybody who had 
any connection with Holliment in their efforts to 
find it,” he answered, drily. “That’s about it!” 

“Then I am in some danger?” I said. “Of course, 
he knew of my connection, temporary though it was, 
with Holliment!” 

“Don’t be afraid!” he answered. “I’ll see to you. 


114 


RIPPLING RUBY 


You’re safer here with me, and in London, than you 
were down there at Renardsmere House. Put it out 
of your mind, Mr. Cranage, and we’ll just drive 
round to Paddington Police Station, and hear any 
news about last night’s affair—they ought to have 
some, there, by this time.” 

So we went back to Paddington, and there, at 
the Police Station, immediately encountered a man 
who appeared unfeignedly glad to see my com¬ 
panion. 

“I was just going to telephone to you,” he said. 
“I’ve got some information about that murdered man 
of whose identity we aren’t sure.” 

“You needn’t be uncertain any longer,” remarked 
Jifferdene. “I’ve had him identified—by this gentle¬ 
man. He’s the man I said he was—Holliment, of 
Portsmouth. What information have you got about 
him?” 

“Well, we’ve been making enquiries in that Maida 
Yale district all day,” said the other, “and this 
afternoon I struck on something. A man answering 
his description was in the Warrington Hotel late 
last night with another man. I’m just going round 
there to get more news about it—you’d better come.” 

“As long as there’s anything to learn—” began 
Jifferdene. 

“There’ll be something to learn. As soon as I 
heard of it, I sent a man to get the landlord to go 
round to the mortuary to see if he recognised the 
body as that of the man who had been in there last 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 


115 


night. He’ll be back at the hotel by now, and what 
I want to get at is not so much particulars about 
him—the dead ’un—as about the man who was 
with him,” said the Paddington detective. “That’s 
a thing to follow up at once.” 

“Come on, then,” assented Jifferdene. “Come on, 
Mr. Cranage—you’re fairly in for it, now—may as 
well see it through. ’Tisn’t as good fun as fox¬ 
hunting, maybe,” he added, as we went out and got 
into the taxi-cab again, “but there is excitement in 
it, you know.” 

I was beginning to feel that there was, by that 
time. Man-hunting!—hunting a man, who, after 
all, was just one amongst seven millions! 

“I suppose you’ve got to put two and two together, 
in these cases?” I said as we rode off once more. 
“Sort of mathematical problem, eh?” 

“Aye, or a jig-saw puzzle!” remarked Jifferdene, 
with a wink at the other man. “And sometimes it’s 
a job to fit the pieces, isn’t it, Birkem?” 

“I believe you,” said Birkem. “Looks like it in this 
case, too. What was this chap knifed for? Not 
for what he had on him, anyway!” 

“Ah!” remarked Jifferdene. “Lot o’ guess things 
in this world. However, it’ll be something to find 
out anything. Hope this landlord’s blessed with a 
memory.” 

“Well, there’s memories and memories,” observed 
Birkem. “Give me a plain, uncoloured one! What 
I object to is when they start mixing up their memo- 


116 


RIPPLING RUBY 


ries with their imaginations. But I know this man 
a bit—he’ll tell us a straightforward tale.” 

“Practical man, eh?” suggested Jifferdene. 

“Very!” assented Birkem. “He’ll tell us just 
what he saw, and just what he heard—and no more.” 

The landlord in question evidently expected a 
visit from the police, and as soon as we arrived 
ushered us into a private parlour and sat down with 
us. He himself plunged straight into the subject 
that had brought us there. 

“Well,” he said, folding his hands on the table 
before him, and looking round at us, “I’ve been 
along there—to the mortuary.” 

“Well?” asked Birkem. 

“That’s the man who was in here last night!” 

“You’re certain?” 

“Dead certain! He came in here—into our 
saloon bar, that is—about half-past ten, and was 
here until nearly closing time.” 

“He’d another man with him, hadn’t he?” sug¬ 
gested Birkem. 

“He had. A younger man—very well dressed, 
quite a swell as regards his clothes. A Jew!” 

It was all I could do to repress a start. That, I 
had no doubt, was Neamore. Neamore, of course. 
But I was not going to speak—yet. 

“Had you ever seen either of them before?” asked 
Jifferdene. 

“Never! That’s perhaps why I noticed them par¬ 
ticularly. I happened to be serving, myself, at that 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 


117 


part of the counter they came to when they entered, 
and I took stock of both. There was another rea¬ 
son why they attracted my attention—they asked 
for a bottle of champagne.” 

“And got it, of course,” said Birkem. 

“Of course!—and one of the best brands, too. 
They drank that at the counter, taking their time 
over it. I heard what they were talking about.” 

“What?” asked Jifferdene. 

“The chances of that filly of Lady Renardsmere’s 
—Rippling Ruby—for the Derby,” answered the 
landlord. “The younger man seemed to have some 
inside knowledge about it.” 

“Well?” said Jifferdene, after a pause. “And 
what then?” 

“They finished their bottle. Then the elder man— 
the man I’ve just seen,” continued the landlord with 
a significant nod—“he glanced at his watch. ‘Lots 
o’ time yet,’ he said. ‘We’ll have another.’ So they 
ordered another bottle of the same, and when I’d 
opened it for ’em they took it and their glasses 
across to an alcove in the saloon, and sat down.” 

“Were they sober?” enquired Birkem. 

“Sober and quiet and as well behaved as you 
please,” affirmed the landlord, confidently. “Very 
well conducted, polite men. I took ’em for a couple 
of bookmakers—something connected with the Turf, 
anyway.” 

“And they stopped in your place some time— 
talking?” asked Jifferdene. 


118 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Until within ten minutes of closing time—chat¬ 
ting quietly over their wine. Then they lighted 
cigars, and as they were going out the younger one 
came up to me at the counter and asked me if I could 
tell them where Delaware Road was? I went out to 
the door with them and pointed the way—it’s not far 
off. They said good-night and went in that direc¬ 
tion.” 

“Together?” asked Jifferdene. 

“Together!” said the landlord. 

We presently went away and walked along War¬ 
rington Crescent in quest of Delaware Road, which 
proved to be only a street or two off. It was an emi¬ 
nently respectable-looking thoroughfare, of the 
type peculiar to that district—solid, stucco-faced 
little villas set in small stone-wall-enclosed gardens: 
nothing in its outward appearance suggested crime 
of the murderous sort. Yet, as Jifferdene pointed 
out, here those two men had come, very late at night, 
and, not three minutes’ walk away, down by the 
canal, one of them had been done to death some two 
hours afterwards. 

“You’ll have to make some searching investiga¬ 
tions hereabouts, Birkem,” he remarked, as we stood 
at a corner, looking about us. “Holliment and that 
other man came here to see—somebody! Who?” 

Birkem took a speculative, discriminating glance 
on all sides of him. 

“There aren’t so many houses in this road,” he 
observed. “And every one of ’em looks as if folk 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 


119 


with bank balances and morocco-bound prayer- 
books lives in ’em! Highly respectable, I call it. I 
can get the names and so on of every resident out of 
the Directory and I can call at every door. But if 
they did call on somebody here, that somebody’s not 
very likely to say so!” 

“You’ll have to try your luck,” said Jifferdene. 
“That landlord said these two were talking about the 
Turf. Find out, to start with, if anybody connected 
with horse-racing, or a betting business, lives in this 
road—you might get a clue there, if there does. 
Any bit of news of that sort—what’s the matter, 
Mr. Cranage?” 

For I had suddenly let out a shout of startled 
surprise, and was following it up by gesticulations 
which doubtless made my companions think I had 
gone mad. A taxi-cab running at a high rate of 
speed, had come round the corner, and was now mak¬ 
ing swiftly for Edgeware Road, along Warrington 
Crescent—so swiftly indeed that already the number 
plate at its rear was a blur of figures. But as it 
passed me I had just managed to recognise its occu¬ 
pant—Quartervayne! 

“That cab!” I exclaimed. “Quartervayne’s in it! 
Quartervayne!—the man who sent me to Holliment! 
Quick—can’t we follow it?” 

“As there isn’t another taxi anywhere in sight, 
we can’t,” said Jifferdene. “But are you cer¬ 
tain?” 

“Dead certain!” I assented excitedly. “I saw 


120 


RIPPLING RUBY 


him plainly. Quartervayne, as sure as I’m alive? 
If only we could have stopped him!” 

“Aye—that might have been a help,” he replied, 
shaking his head. “But he’s out of sight now! 
Um!—now supposing he was the man they came to 
see here last night. As we’ve or you’ve seen him 
hereabouts maybe he’s living here. Look here! give 
Birkem a full description of him.” 

I gave Birkem as accurate a description of Quar¬ 
tervayne as I could, and as I remembered him on the 
Clarence Pier at Portsmouth, and that done Jiffer- 
dene and I left him and went away. And for a 
moment I was half-tempted to tell my companion 
about Neamore, for I was sure that it was Neamore 
who had been with Holliment at the Warrington 
Hotel on the previous night and had gone with him 
to Delaware Road. But I thought better—or it may 
have been worse—of that, determining to say nothing 
until I had seen Lady Renardsmere, or until some¬ 
thing further had developed. I was sorely puzzled— 
Holliment, Quartervayne, Neamore, Lady Renards¬ 
mere made a queer combination. . . . 

“Look here!” said Jifferdene, suddenly breaking 
in on my thought, “the afternoon’s not yet over. 
We’ll just go to the Chinese Legation in Portland 
Place—I want to have a word with that Mr. Shen 
who came with us to see you. If that old Sphinx at 
the Langham won’t tell me anything, perhaps Mr. 
Shen will, in view of Holliment’s murder.” 

We went to Portland Place. Mr. Shen received 


THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR 


121 


us. He was bland, suave, courteous, interested, and 
absolutely inscrutable. He agreed with Jifferdene 
that Holliment had doubtless been knifed by the 
Chinaman whose face I had seen at the window, and 
who was undoubtedly the man that Mr. Cheng 
wanted to find. But having agreed, he said no more. 

“Now, Mr. Shen,” said Jifferdene, wheedlingly, 
“can’t you tell me what it’s all about? Why does 
Mr. Cheng want to find this chap?—whose name he 
won’t give us.” 

Mr. Shen’s smooth tones grew silkier than ever. 

“The thing,” he said, “is to find him.” 

Jifferdene spread out his hands. 

“Just so!” he agreed. “But let me ask you— 
you’ve got means that we haven’t. Have you tried 
to find him—in the quarters where your countrymen 
congregate in London—Limehouse, and so on? You 
have?—well, have you had a trace of him?” 

“No!” answered Mr. Shen, promptly enough. 
“No trace! Not a word! And—he is a man who is 
disfigured—good to identify.” 

“Then where the devil is he!” exclaimed Jifferdene. 
“A Chinaman!—with half his left ear gone !—and as 
elusive as—” 

“I think,” interrupted Mr. Shen, quietly, “he is 
being carefully sheltered, hidden, by English accom¬ 
plices.” 

“He was out last night, anyway, I’ll bet!” mut¬ 
tered Jifferdene. “Lay a million to one it was he 
who knifed Holliment!” 


122 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Yes,” assented Mr. Shen. He smiled blandly 
through his spectacles. “I think he will knife some¬ 
body else yet. Then perhaps you will catch him.” 

Jifferdene stared at him and got up. 

“Is Mr. Cheng going to tell me why he wants this 
man caught?” he asked. “Better still, though—- 
do you know, yourself, Mr. Shen? Come, now!” 

“Um!” said Mr. Shen. “Good-bye. You come 
and see me again some time, eh?” 

We went off at that, and Jifferdene swore all the 
way down Portland Place. Perhaps it relieved his 
feeling; anyway he then turned his attention to me. 
After a little consultation, I decided to go to the 
Howard Hotel, in Norfolk Street, for the night, and 
for my own safety’s sake to remain indoors after 
I had once crossed the threshold. Thither, on 
parting from Jifferdene, I repaired, dined leisurely, 
smoked, had a game of billiards or two with a fellow 
guest, and at eleven o’clock went to my room. I was 
just going to begin undressing when a hall-porter 
came up with a note, saying that its sender was 
waiting downstairs. The note was a roughly twisted 
scrap of paper, on which two words had been hastily 
scribbled in pencil: Clarence Pier . 

I went straight downstairs. There, in a shadowy 
corner of the hall, stood Quartervayne. 


CHAPTER X 


QUARTERVAYNE 

Late as it was, there were several men standing 
about in the hall, and so that I might not attract 
their attention, I showed no surprise on seeing my 
unexpected visitor but went straight up to him and 
held out a hand (unwillingly enough in real truth!) 
as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world to 
see him there. He gave me an almost convulsive pres¬ 
sure in return; his own hand was hot and clammy, 
and I saw at once that he was excited and nervous. 

“A word with you!” he whispered. “Somewhere 
quiet!” 

I glanced into the smoking-room, near the open 
door of which we were standing. It was pretty full 
of men, but I saw a corner that was vacant, and lead¬ 
ing Quartervayne into the room I took him over to 
it. 

“A drink!” he murmured, as we sat down. “A stiff 
’un! Then—talk.” 

I summoned a waiter, and bade my visitor order 
what he liked. He wanted brandy—a certain good 
dose of it—and soda. When the waiter had gone to 
123 


124 


RIPPLING RUBY 


get it, I turned to Quartervayne, resolved on know- 
ing one thing there and then. 

“How did you know I was here?” I asked. 

“Saw you, in the Strand, with Jifferdene, of the 
Yard,” he answered, with a wink and a nudge of my 
arm. “Know him—well enough! Smart fellow! 
And I just followed you till you came in here—and 
so dropped in, now. Wanted to see you—most par¬ 
ticular.” 

The brandy and soda came, and he took a pull at 
it, sighed as it went down, and again turned to me 
lowering his voice. 

“You’ll have heard about Holliment?” he said. 
“Have you?” I demanded. 

“Everybody has—by now,” he retorted. “It’s in 
the evening papers.” 

I had not seen any evening newspaper, and said 
so. He pulled one out, and showed me a stop-press 
paragraph. 

The man who was found murdered early this 
morning in Bloomfield road, Maida Vale, has been 
identified as one Roger Holliment, until recently 
a general dealer and coal merchant, of Portsmouth. 
There is as yet no clue to the murderer, but the 
police are prosecuting active enquiries in the 
neighbourhood of the murder. 

“I reckon it was you who identified him?” he went 
on, with a sidelong glance at me. “I suspected 


QUARTERVAYNE 


125 


they’d get hold of you. Holliment, of course, right 
enough! No clue—perhaps? But I bet you and I 
know something—what?” 

“What have you come here for, Mr. Quarter- 
vayne?” I demanded. “That’s what I want to 
know!” 

“I’ll tell you!” he answered readily. “To do you 
a good turn! I brought you into this damned mess, 
my lad, and it’s my duty to get you out of it. That’s 
what I came here for! Your sake—and safety!” 

I gave him a searching look, and I saw he was 
speaking truth. He nodded at me as if in confirma¬ 
tion. 

“Fact!” he said. “Nothing else!” 

“Well, that’s very kind of you, I’m sure, Mr. 
Quartervayne,” I answered. “But—what particular 
danger am I in?” 

Before replying he pulled out a cigar-case, offered 
its contents to me, and when I declined on the plea 
of the lateness of the hour, picked out a cigar him¬ 
self, and began to smoke. I noticed how his fingers 
trembled as he struck a match, and I could see that, 
big man though he was, he was greatly agitated. 
But another pull at his glass, and the first whiff or 
two of his cigar, seemed to steady him. 

“Look you here, my lad!” he said, suddenly. “No 
use beating about the bush! We know who did Holli¬ 
ment in! That damned Chink! Sure as that I see 
you at this blessed minute! And he’ll do me in, and 
he’ll do you in—if we let him! The thing is— 


126 


RIPPLING RUBY 


clear out! I’m going—and if you’re wise you’ll go 
too.” 

“Go—where?” I asked. 

“Anywhere—as long as it’s out o’ this!” he re¬ 
torted. “Get blue water between him and you—for 
the present, at any rate. I’m going—first thing in 
the morning. Flushing, or Middleburg—I’ve pals at 
both places. You come along, too—you’re a smart 
young fellow, and I’ll see you’re all right. Never 
mind about money—I’ve plenty—no end of it. You 
come—you can act as my clerk over there. I can 
carry on my business from Middleburg, or Flushing, 
or any o’ them foreign places as well as from Ports¬ 
mouth or London. Why stay here to get that bloody 
Chink’s knife into your throat—sooner or later? 
I shan’t—not me 1” 

“Mr. Quartervayne,” said I. “I’ll be obliged to 
you if you’ll tell me in plain language why that 
Chinaman should want to run his knife into my 
throat—or into yours—or into poor Holliment’s? 
And take your time, Mr. Quartervayne—we’re safe 
enough here!” 

“Why, there’s some comfort in that!” he said, 
looking round him. “I’ve been on the jumps all day, 
even in broad daylight. But you tell me this first— 
how much have you told the police—what’ve you told 
that Scotland Yard fellow?” 

“Just the plain truth about my own adventure in 
Portsmouth, Mr. Quartervayne, from my first meet¬ 
ing with you until I found myself, after being 


QUARTERVAYNE 


127 


drugged, on Chilverton Downs,” I answered, giving 
him a keen look. “I could do no less.” 

“You couldn’t!” he agreed. “But—what do they 
know?” 

“Next to nothing,” said I. “Except that there’s a 
Chinaman lurking or hiding somewhere who’s wanted 
for some reason or other by a wealthy countryman of 
his, and whom they suspect of having murdered 
Holliment.” 

“They’ve no clue to his whereabouts ?” he asked. 

“No—so far,” I replied. “But have you?” 

He spread out his hands with a grimace. Then, 
drinking off his brandy, he beckoned to the waiter, 
bade him replenish the glass, and turned to me with 
more assurance than he had hitherto displayed. 

“I?” he said. “Good Lord, no ! He’s somewhere in 
London—as you may be certain, after last night’s 
work! But you want to know the whys and where¬ 
fores of certain things. I’ll tell you—you’ll under¬ 
stand better. Wait a minute.” 

He waited until he had got his second drink, and 
had taken a stiff pull at it; then, edging 4iimself 
nearer to me on the lounge on which we were sitting, 
he went on in a low, confidential tone. 

“Holliment,” he said. “Holliment, he had more 
than one business there in Portsmouth. There was 
that waste and general dealer’s shop. Then, he’d the 
coal-agency, I was partner with him in that—nice 
business, too—paid well. And he’d a bit of a share 
with me in another concern—I’m a Turf commission 


128 


RIPPLING RUBY 


agent—bookmaker, you know—by profession, but 
I’ve had several irons in the fire. But Holliment, 
he’d another business, all belonging to himself. He 
kept—at least, it was managed for him—a lodging 
or boarding-house in Portsea. Cheap place, you 
understand, sort of temperance hotel. Poorer sort 
of small commercials used it—you know the style— 
bed and breakfast for three bob, and other prices 
according—that sort o’ thing. Well—there was a 
Chinaman came there. This Chinaman!” 

“Before you go further, Mr. Quartervayne,” I 
said, interrupting him. “Will you tell me this—did 
you ever see the man?” 

“Only once or twice—at a slight distance,” he 
answered. “In the street—with Holliment.” 

“Could you say if he’d any disfigurement?” I 
asked. “A scar—marks of a wound—anything of 
that sort?” 

“Couldn’t say,” he replied. “Never was close 
enough. He was a respectably dressed chap— 
European clothes, you know—better dressed than 
most of Holliment’s customers at that place. But— 
a Chink!” 

“Well?” I suggested. “And his name?” 

“Called himself Mr. Chuh Sin,” he answered. 
“Chuh Sin! Told Holliment he’d come down there 
to study life in a big British naval port. However, 
he was taken ill, and they had to call in the doctor. 
Doctor thought the fellow was going to develop 
smallpox and packed him off there and then to the 


QUARTERVAYNE 


129 


hospital. Now then, the man had been at the shanty 
of Holliment’s four or five weeks, and he hadn’t paid 
Holliment a penny!—always said he was expecting 
remittances. And as the doctor told Holliment that 
he believed it was going to be a bad case and the 
man would probably die, Holliment did a damned 
silly thing. He sold the chap’s effects—books, some 
instruments, so on—to pay his bill. And then, all 
of a sudden, the fellow turned up! It had all been 
a false alarm about the smallpox; he was all right, 
and the hospital folk bundled him out. I heard 
about it from one of the staff, early one morning— 
that this Chinaman had been discharged—and I 
made tracks, I can tell you! That was when I came 
across you.” 

I turned and gave him a long and steady look. 

“Are you telling me seriously, Mr. Quartervayne, 
that you fled, in an obvious panic, simply because a 
Chinaman was discharged from hospital?” I asked. 
“Come—I’m not quite such a fool as to believe that! 
There’s more behind all this!” 

“You don’t know those fellows, my lad!” he re¬ 
torted. “I knew that when that Chink discovered 
that Holliment had sold his things he’d go bold-faced 
for him and for anybody connected with him. And 
he knew I was Holliment’s partner.” 

“Depends what there was amongst the things, Mr. 
Quartervayne,” I remarked, satirically. “However, 
you know! But go on.” 

“There’s no more of it,” he said. “I cleared— 


130 


RIPPLING RUBY 


for the day at any rate. I sent that note on to 
Holliment, by you. You know the rest. The Chink 
did go for Holliment—as you’re aware. You know 
what happened.” 

I made no answer for a moment or two. I was 
reckoning things up, one way and another. And I 
was beginning to see light. Holliment, examining 
the Chinaman’s effects, had found something of value 
—perhaps of great value. He had shown it, what¬ 
ever it was, to his crony Quartervayne, and they 
had appropriated and sold it. There was no other 
conclusion to be drawn. But it was useless to cross- 
examine Quartervayne—except on one or two points 
personal to myself. And I reminded myself before 
entering on that stage of our proceedings that 
Quartervayne, presumably, knew nothing of my 
connection with Lady Renardsmere. 

“Yes, I know what happened at that store of 
Holliment’s, Mr. Quartervaynei” I said. “Who 
should know better? But now I want to ask you 
two or three questions. Holliment drove me out of 
Portsmouth that night in a car which was his—we 
started from some yard not far off his place. Now 
I want to know—were you with him?” 

“Oh, well, my lad, if it comes to that,” he said, 
with a sort of plausible indulgence in his tone, “I 
was! Not when you started—he picked me up a bit 
farther on. Nearer Cosham—top end of the town.” 

“I suppose I was asleep?” I suggested. “Fast 
asleep inside.” 


QUARTERVAYNE 


131 


“Well, the fact of the case was, you were 
drugged,” he replied coolly. “You’ll maybe remem¬ 
ber, he gave you a drink—to keep the cold out— 
just before you started? Well—doped, you under¬ 
stand? Harmless, though—you came to no harm.” 

“And the two of you disposed of me on Chilverton 
Downs, eh?” I said. 

“Up above Manson’s place—the trainer’s,” he 
answered. “Ah, I knew old Manson well enough! 
Run by his daughter now, that place is—and a damn 
smart girl she is, and a clever ’un! Yes, we put you 
down there, all comfortable—with a hundred pounds 
in your pocket, and a scrap of a note. Bit of com¬ 
pensation like—and a hundred pounds is a hundred 
pounds, my lad! I daresay it came in useful?—you 
were broke when I met you.” 

“Temporarily, Mr. Quartervayne!” I said. “Only 
for the time being. But why did you run that car 
over the edge of the old chalk-pit?” 

“The damn thing broke down—hopelessly!” he 
answered. “Holliment, he couldn’t get it to go, no¬ 
how, so we took off the number plate, and all that, 
and hid ’em amongst the heather—they’ll be there 
now, if you hit on the right spot. Then him and 
me, we shoved the old ark across the turf and over 
the rim o’ that pit, and smashed her up, good and 
proper, we didn’t want tracing, d’ye see?” 

“And after that, I suppose, you walked across 
country, in the early morning and got a train at 
some wayside station?” I suggested. 


132 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“You’re right!” he assented. “We did! And 
came up here—and here we’ve been ever since. Then 
—this damned Chink turns up, as I feared he would, 
and he’s done Holliment in!” 

“Mr. Quartervayne!” said I. “If you’re so certain 
that this Chinaman murdered Holliment, why don’t 
you go to the police with your story?” 

“No!” he exclaimed promptly. “No! I’ll have no 
dealings with those chaps—never have had, and 
never will! Let ’em do their own work!—no help 
from me.” 

“You’d only have to tell them all you’ve told me,” 
I said. 

“Tell ’em—nothing!” he declared. “And how 
could I tell one Chinaman from another? Like as 
two peas is two Chinamen—yellow faces, slit eyes— 
can’t tell Ching from Chang. No!” 

“This man’s name is Chuh Sin, according to you,” 
I remarked. 

“I reckon a Chinaman can change his name as 
easily as an Englishman,” he retorted. “He might 
be Lo Ping or Ah Fu by now! I’m going to have 
no truck with any police! I’m fed up here! Going 
to clear out—first thing to-morrow morning. Hook 
of Holland first. You come—we’ll go to Flushing or 
Middleburg. I’ll pay you well as my clerk—I can 
see you’re a smart chap, and ho doubt a good 
scholar. I ain’t—never had much schooling.” 

“I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Quartervayne, but 
I’m not going,” I said. “I’m not afraid of this 


QUARTERVAYNE 


133 


mysterious and elusive Chinaman, though I won’t 
deny that from your account of the whole thing, 
there seems to be some danger to anybody who’s 
been unlucky enough to get mixed up with Holli- 
ment. Rut there are one or two more questions I’d 
like to ask you. And first—are you aware under 
what circumstances Holliment’s dead body was 
found?” 

He gave a sort of involuntary shudder and blinked 
his eyes rapidly. 

“I know where he was found, and what had hap¬ 
pened to him!” he muttered. “Them damned Chinks 
—a knife!—ah, don’t they know how to use one! 
Ugh!” 

“I’m not referring to that,” said I. “Do you 
know that Holliment’s watch and chain—worth at 
least fifty pounds—lay by him, on the path, that 
he’d three or four hundred pounds in ready money 
on him, also thrown carelessly aside—and that his 
clothes had been ripped and slit wherever it was 
likely that anything could be concealed in the pad¬ 
ding or seams ? Do you know all that, Mr. Quarter- 
vayne? You do !—then just you tell me—what was 
the murderer searching for? Come, now!” 

But I knew as soon as ever I had put the direct 
question, that I was not going to get any straight¬ 
forward answer from Quartervayne. However 
nervous and excited he might be, he was sufficiently 
master of himself to control his features, and his 
big, moon-like face became blank and impassive. He 


13 4 * 


RIPPLING RUBY 


lifted his pudgy fingers, stroked his chin, and shook 
his head. 

“Can’t say!” he answered. “Ways o’ them 
Eastern chaps are beyond me—don’t understand 
’em!” 

“Perhaps—but you’ve sufficient knowledge of 
human nature to know that to Eastern or Western, 
a valuable gold watch and three or four hundred 
pounds in cash are a bit tempting, when you’ve 
nothing to do but pocket them!” I said, still eyeing 
him narrowly. “And you know jolly well, Mr. 
Quartervayne, that this was no ordinary murder! 
It wasn’t the work of a footpad, done for what he 
could get from his victim. Whoever it was that 
murdered Holliment—and it mayn’t have been this 
Chinaman, when all’s said and done-” 

“Who else could it be?” he demanded sharply. 
“Who else?” 

“It might have been an Englishman,” I said. “I 
don’t know—and you don’t know. But as I was 
saying—whoever did it was after something that he 
believed Holliment to have on him. He searched 
rapidly and frantically for it, throwing all else 
aside-” 

“Look you here, my lad!” he interrupted. “You’re 
damned clever, no doubt, but there’s other theories 
than yours! There’s this—the Chink was inter¬ 
rupted before he could gather up the watch and the 
money! He heard somebody coming—and he hopped 
it!” 




QUARTERVAYNE 


135 


“Tell that to the marines, Mr. Quartervayne,” 
I exclaimed. “It’s a theory that’s full of holes! 
It won’t hold water for one minute. He’d time to 
rip up Holliment’s clothing, to cut into the padding 
at his shoulders, to examine and slit his waistband, to 
find out if he was wearing a belt under his shirt! 
No—he was after something. Now what?” 

“I tell you I don’t know!” he asserted. “I know 
nothing about it!” 

“Very good!” said I. “But do you know a man 
named Neamore—Percy Neamore?” 

He started as if I had held a revolver at him, and 
his big face paled. 

“What do you know about Neamore?” he de¬ 
manded. “When-•” 

“Never mind!” I retorted. “Do you know him? I 
think you do, Mr. Quartervayne, and I’ll tell you 
why. Holliment and Neamore were in the Warring¬ 
ton Hotel, in Maida Vale, very late last night, and 
when they left together they went to see somebody 
in Delaware Road, close by—and not far from the 
scene of the murder. Did they go to see you, Mr. 
Quartervayne? Because I saw you in Delaware 
Road this very afternoon, in a taxi-cab! Now come 
—who is Neamore?” 

He stared at me, hard, for a minute, in silence— 
then suddenly rising, he made straight out of the 
room. Before I could follow, he had walked out 
of the hotel and into the night. 



CHAPTER XI 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 

I lay awake for a long time that night, endeavour¬ 
ing to think things out. It seemed to me if one 
was going to get at any clear view of the entire, 
utterly puzzling situation, one had got to go back 
as far as possible—at any rate, to some definite 
point at which these present matters began. And as 
far as I was in possession of facts, the thing seemed 
to have had its beginning with that astute, watchful, 
inscrutable old Chinaman whom I had seen at the 
Langham Hotel—Mr. Cheng. I tried to get the 
events into sequence—figuring, of course very largely 
on probabilities. I put it in this way—Mr. Cheng 
is a wealthy Chinese financier. He comes to Europe 
on some business or other: he has secretaries and 
servants with him. During his stay in Paris, one 
of these followers robs him of something—to be 
exact, from what I have already learnt, the man is 
one Chuh Sin. Chuh Sin, having robbed his master of 
this Something, escapes to England. He turns up at 
Portsmouth—perhaps he struck there from South¬ 
ampton, having travelled by way of Havre. He 
puts himself up at Holliment’s Temperance Hotel, 
136 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 


137 


and after a time, being taken ill, goes to hospital, 
leaving all his effects in Holliment’s hands. Coming 
out of hospital unexpectedly, he finds that Holliment 
has appropriated that Something. He goes for 
Holliment—he gets a gang of loafers together and 
conducts an attack on Holliment’s store. Holliment 
flies—and Chuh Sin somehow gets on his track. 
Probably Chuh Sin has English friends in London 
—anyway somebody murders Holliment, and turns 
him inside out, as it were, in a frantic search for 
that Something. All that seems plain, straightfor¬ 
ward, precise. And out of it rise some queer 
questions. 

What is the Something? 

Why won’t Mr. Cheng tell the English police what 
it is? 

Were Holliment, Quartervayne, and Neamore 
partners in the appropriation—in plain language, 
the stealing of it? 

Did Neamore sell the Something to Lady Ren- 
ardsmere—for ten thousand pounds? 

Did I—in utter innocence—carry It, whatever it 
may be, from Lady Renardsmere to Mr. Penni- 
thwaite ? 

Is It—this thing, which bids fair to cause murder 
and all sorts of horrors and unpleasantness—now 
safely reposing in Mr. Pennithwaite’s safe in Lin¬ 
coln’s Inn Fields, while a bloodthirsty Chinaman, 
shielded, no doubt, by some English associates, is 
prowling about on a relentless search for it? 


138 


RIPPLING RUBY 


It seemed to me as I lay there, wide awake, star¬ 
ing into the blackness of my room, that I knew more 
about the whole thing than anybody! And the 
question forced itself again and again upon me— 
Ought I to tell all I knew to the police, to Jifferdene, 
at once? 

I didn’t know how to answer that question. I 
didn’t want to bring Lady Renardsmere into this 
business—at any rate, until I had seen and talked 
to her. If only Jifferdene would let me go back to 
Renardsmere I could tell Lady Renardsmere all I 
knew, all I had found out about Neamore, whoever 
he was, and about his undoubted association with 
Holliment and Quartervayne, and I would beg her 
to communicate with the police herself. For I was 
certain by that time that Chuh Sin and his English 
friends would stick at nothing to recover that Some¬ 
thing, and we might be having murder done at 
Renardsmere House. Tell Lady Renardsmere the 
whole story I would!—as soon as I could get at her. 
And Peggie Manson, too—perhaps Peggie first. For 
I had seen enough of Peggie to know that if ever 
there was a young woman who had a headpiece 
screwed on straight and tight, Peggie was she. 

But there was that infernal inquest. 

I dreaded that business. I had never given evi¬ 
dence in my life—before either judge, magistrate, 
or coroner. I didn’t know what they mightn’t get 
out of me. I supposed—being wholly ignorant of 
the procedure in their affairs—that the police would 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 


139 


have at any rate something to do with it: perhaps, 
nay, probably, Jifferdene would have already sug¬ 
gested to the Coroner that I knew a lot. I was 
afraid of having to introduce Lady Renardsmere’s 
name—altogether, I didn’t know with what questions 
I mightn’t be faced And if I let things out, about 
Lady Renardsmere and Neamore, Jifferdene would 
turn on me and want to know why the devil I hadn’t 
told him all that? Yes, certainly, I said to myself 
as I tossed and tumbled about, I knew a precious 
lot more than Jifferdene knew that I knew!—and I 
heartily wished I didn’t. 

I rather overslept myself, out of sheer weariness, 
in the end, and it was past nine o’clock when I went 
down to the coffee-room for breakfast. Half-way 
through it, and while I was reading an account of 
the Holliment murder, a very guarded and concise 
one, obviously inspired by the police, and suggesting 
more mystery in the affair than I knew it to possess, 
I was called to the telephone. Jifferdene was at the 
other end. He said that he was busy about the 
opening of the inquest on Holliment, at Paddington 
that afternoon and couldn’t get on to see me for 
two or three hours—would I be in the hotel between 
twelve-thirty and one? I promised that I would— 
and then asked him a question. 

“Any developments?” 

“No!” he answered. “But I may hear of one or 
two by noon. Look here!—you keep quiet till I 
come—don’t go wandering round, mum’s the word!” 


140 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“All right!” said I. “Twelve-thirty or there¬ 
abouts, then—here.” 

I rang him off before he had a chance to say more. 
For already, while we talked, and as soon as I found 
that he wouldn’t want me until noon, I had deter¬ 
mined, having two hours to myself, to do a bit of 
detective work on my own account. I went back 
and finished my breakfast, and then set about doing 
it. 

I was going to the Ritz Hotel. I had an object 
in view. When Lady Renardsmere had carried off 
Neamore in her car to town, I had heard her tell 
Walker, the chauffeur, to go straight to the Ritz— 
I wanted to know if Neamore had gone there with 
her, and, more important still, if they had been 
joined by anybody. For it seemed to me a highly 
probable thing that the transaction which resulted 
in Lady Renardsmere handing over a cheque for 
ten thousand pounds to Neamore had been carried 
out there—and possibly with the assistance of a 
third, and perhaps a fourth party—at whose identi¬ 
ties I was already guessing. 

I went to the Ritz—with a little management I 
got hold of a highly important dignitary in the wait¬ 
ing line, who, I knew, would be likely to know who 
lunched there three days before. I made use of a 
little weapon with which Jifferdene had furnished 
me—one of his own official cards. This, with a well- 
assumed air of mystery and confidence, I showed to 
my man when I had got him aside. 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 


141 


“I want a little information from you,” I said. 
“Absolutely confidential and private, and between 
ourselves, of course. Do you know Lady Renards- 
mere ?” 

“Of Park Lane?” he replied at once. “Oh, cer¬ 
tainly !” 

“Did she come here to lunch three days ago?” I 
asked. 

“She did—oh, yes!” he answered. 

“With a youngish, well-dressed—rather over¬ 
dressed—gentleman—a Jew?” I enquired. 

“That’s so,” he assented. 

“Did you know him?” 

“No!—never remember seeing him before—here 
or elsewhere.” 

“Did anybody join them?” 

He nodded—evidently his recollection was very 
clear. 

“When they came—in Lady Renardsmere’s car— 
she came in and bespoke a table for four. Then the 
young gentleman went to the telephone. After that 
he and she waited in the lounge. About half-past one 
two men came in—the man with Lady Renardsmere 
introduced them to her. Then they all lunched 
together.” 

“Can you describe the two men?’” I asked. 

“Well,” he answered. “I should say—you under¬ 
stand?—they weren’t gentlemen. Well dressed men, 
and well behaved—but you know what I mean. I set 
’em down as men associated with the Turf: of course, 


142 


RIPPLING RUBY 


we know Lady Renardsmere, and that she’s a well- 
known owner: that filly of hers, Rippling Ruby, is 
about dead certain to pull off the Derby. I thought 
these men were meeting her ladyship about racing 
matters.” 

“But—their appearance?” 

“One man was tall, stoutish, florid-faced; the 
other was stoutish, too, but short. Each wore a 
grey tweed suit—new suits, they were, too. And 
grey Homburg hats, with black bands. The other 
man, who came with her, wore town clothes and a 
silk hat.” 

“Did you see any business transacted between 
them?” I enquired. “Any signing of papers or 
anything?” 

“Yes,” he replied. “I served them myself with 
coffee and liqueurs after lunch, and I saw Lady 
Renardsmere at a side-table, writing a cheque. 
She handed it to the man who came in with her at 
first.” 

“Nothing more?” 

“Nothing more.” 

“Did they all leave together?” I asked. 

“No,” he said. “The three men went away soon 
after I’d seen Lady Renardsmere writing the cheque; 
she waited here till her car came round for her at 
three o’clock.” 

“You see a great many people,” I remarked. 
“Had you ever seen any one of these three men 
previously ?” 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 


143 


“No!” he replied confidently. “Never! Abso¬ 
lute strangers to me—all three! And I know this 
part of the town pretty well!” 

I went away, knowing now that whoever Neamore 
might be, he had introduced Holliment and Quarter- 
vayne to Lady Renardsmere at the Ritz Hotel, and 
that in all probability she had there bought from 
the three of them the Something that Holliment had 
stolen from Chuh Sin and that Chuh Sin had filched 
from his master, the Sphinx-like Mr. Cheng. What 
was it? Why, once more—wouldn’t Mr. Cheng tell 
us? 

I went back to my own hotel, revolving these mys¬ 
teries—and at half-past twelve in walked Jifferdene, 
obviously vexed. 

“Here’s a fine do!” he exclaimed as he dropped 
into a chair at my side in the smoking-room. “That 
infernal old Chinaman’s gone!” 

“Mr. Cheng?” I said. 

“No other! Cleared out—last night,” he 
answered. “Not so long after we’d seen him, either. 
Left by the night mail for Paris. Confound him!— 
I’ve had all my morning’s work, or most of it, for 
nothing.” 

“How exactly?” I asked. 

“Well, you see,” he replied, “I made up my 
mind, last night, I’d have him at the inquest. What 
he wouldn’t tell us, I knew he’d have to tell if we got 
him into a witness-box, and as there’s no prospect at 
present of getting him before a magistrate I thought 


144 


RIPPLING RUBY 


I’d get him before a coroner. And I set to work fix¬ 
ing it this morning with the Paddington coroner, 
and got him to issue a witness summons for Mr. 
Cheng and I went myself with his officer to serve it. 
But when we got to the Langham Hotel, the old owl 
had flown! And there we are! For it seems to me 
that Mr. Cheng holds the key to the situation.” 

“Exactly how?” I asked, anxious to know what 
was in Jifferdene’s mind. 

“This way,” he answered. “I make no doubt that 
Holliment was murdered by that Chink that Mr. 
Cheng wants to lay hands on—I make no doubt, 
either, that that Chink stole something from Mr. 
Cheng, and that he in his turn was robbed by Holli¬ 
ment. I think the Chink turned Holliment inside 
out, so to speak, in his search for that something. 
Follow me?” 

I followed him well enough, knowing what I did, 
and said so. 

“Well, I wanted to make Mr. Cheng tell us, 
straight out, what it was,” he said. “It would sim¬ 
plify matters, but as I say, he’s hopped it!” 

“Do you think Mr. Shen knows?” I suggested. 

“He doesn’t!” he answered. “We went there as 
soon as I found that Mr. Cheng had left. Mr. Shen 
came out of his shell a bit this time, and he assured 
me that they haven’t the least idea why Mr. Cheng 
wanted to lay hands on this mysterious Chink— 
all they know is that he was damned anxious to do 
so, and willing to go to any expense in the matter.” 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 


145 


“Then you’re practically no wiser than before?” 
I said. 

“Precious little!” he muttered, grumblingly. “And 
up to now we’ve got no clue, no trace—beyond what 
you know of.” 

“About this inquest?” I asked. 

“Three o’clock this afternoon,” he answered. 
“It’ll be a mere formality. There’ll be the evidence 
of the policeman who found Holliment, and the 
police-surgeon’s, and yours. Then the Coroner will 
adjourn for, say, a week or a fortnight. Can’t go 
further than that, at present.” 

“Will they ask me a lot of questions ?” I enquired. 

“Not to-day, anyway,” he said. “All you’ll have 
to do will be to identify him as a man you knew in 
Portsmouth by the name of Holliment. Later— 
when we’ve got more details, you’ll have to tell the 
story of those doings at Holliment’s store. But to¬ 
day—next to nothing. A formal affair! Let’s 
pick a bit of lunch, and we’ll go up to Paddington 
and hear if Birkem’s got any more information.” 

Birkem, discovered later at the Paddington Police 
Station, had progressed a little, he had heard of a 
stranger who had lodged at a house in Delaware 
Road for the last two or three weeks and had left 
suddenly on the day after Holliment’s murder. And 
as he was going round to make further enquiries 
into this, we went with him—to a house in the front 
window of which was displayed a card whereon was 
inscribed the words Superior Apartments. Its land- 


146 


RIPPLING RUBY 


lady, presently interviewed, was one of those faded 
persons whose very appearance and manner make it 
unnecessary for them to tell you that they have seen 
better days, and she was quite ready to tell the 
police-officer anything she knew. She had had, for 
about three weeks, a lodger who called himself Mr. 
Carr. He was a tall, portly gentleman, who evi¬ 
dently had plenty of money, and ate and drank very 
well. He did not go out a great deal, except of an 
evening. He was a great buyer of newspapers, 
especially of sporting papers; he had left behind 
him a pile that high of such journals and a lot of 
books about racing. He wrote a lot of letters, and 
he had a good many telegrams come for him 
of an afternoon, between half-past-two and six 
o’clock. 

“Results !” muttered Jifferdene. “Did he have any 
visitors, ma’am?” 

“He never had a single caller until night before 
last,” replied the landlady. “Then, very late in¬ 
deed—close on twelve o’clock—two gentlemen came 
to see him. I was just retiring when they knocked at 
the door.” 

“Did you see them, ma’am?” asked Jifferdene. 

“I let them in—myself,” she answered. “One was 
a short, stoutish gentleman; the other was a younger 
gentleman—I should say he was a Jewish person. 
They asked for Mr. Carr and I showed them into 
his sitting-room. They were there perhaps ten 
minutes—then all three went out together.” 


THE TRAIN GOES OUT 


147 


“Did Mr. Carr say anything to you about going 
out?” asked Birkem. 

“No! He had a latch-key,” said the landlady. 
“I heard him come in again about three o’clock in 
the morning.” 

“Alone?” 

“Oh, yes!” 

“Say anything to you, afterwards, about being 
out so late?” 

“Oh, no! He came in quite quietly. He was a 
very quiet, well-conducted man.” 

“And about his leaving?” asked Birkem. “Left 
suddenly, didn’t he?” 

“Very! Yesterday afternoon. He came in and 
told me he was obliged to go to the Continent, on 
business, and he’d packed his things and was off, in 
a taxi-cab, in twenty minutes. Perhaps you’d like 
to see his sitting-room?—it’s just as he left it.” 

The two detectives were pleased to see the sitting- 
room, and examined it very thoroughly. I don’t 
know whether their professional eyes saw anything 
that mine didn’t perceive; what I saw was a con¬ 
siderable collection of issues of the Sportsman, 
Sporting Times , Ruff's Guide , and similar publica¬ 
tions, and a large heap of telegrams, carefully 
stacked on a side-table, from which I gathered that 
Mr. Carr had amused himself during his quiet resi¬ 
dence in Delaware Road by backing his fancy, and 
had sometimes won and sometimes lost. 

“That’s Quartervayne, of course,” remarked Jif- 


148 


RIPPLING RUBY 


ferdene when we left. “Now if we could only have 
got hold of him! But it’s another case of the Conti¬ 
nent. Well . . * this inquest.” 

The inquest, so much dreaded by me, proved to be 
a very formal affair—a mere opening of proceed¬ 
ings. And after all, I was never called. The house¬ 
keeper of Holliment’s Temperance Hotel, having 
seen the news of his murder, had hurried up to 
town—she was some relation of his, and she identi¬ 
fied him. I might just as well have stayed away. 

“But you’ll be wanted next time, Mr. Cranage,” 
said Jifferdene, when the coroner had adjourned the 
enquiry for a fortnight. “It’ll all have to come 
out then—and no doubt lots more.” 

“Anyway, I can go now?” I suggested. “I shall 
just catch the 4.53 at Victoria.” 

We parted, and I went off—thankful to be free, 
and intent on getting back to Renardsmere, so that 
I could tell Peggie Manson everything and ask her 
advice. I was pushed for time, and I only got to 
Victoria two minutes before the 4.53 was due out. 
And just as I was about to climb into it, I heard a 
shouting and commotion behind me, and turning saw 
Jifferdene running down the platform, waving me to 
stop. I stopped—and the train went out. Jiffer¬ 
dene came on, breathless, panting. 

“Quartervayne!” he whispered, as he reached 
me. “Quartervayne! Found in the East End! 
Murdered!” 


CHAPTER XII 

THE SECOND MURDER 

I am not ashamed to confess that I felt a disa¬ 
greeably cold thrill run shivering along my spine as 
the detective whispered that last word. Murder!— 
again? This was the second time within three days 
that I had heard of the murder of a man whom I 
myself had seen alive and in vigorous health only a 
few hours before he was struck down. And—who 
next? 

I let out the usual commonplace exclamation as I 
stood there, staring. 

“Impossible! Quartervayne? Why-” 

But I checked myself in time. No!—I was not 
going to tell Jifferdene anything until I had been 
to Renardsmere. I glanced wistfully after the train, 
now vanishing in the distance—there went my last 
chance of getting to Renardsmere that night—un¬ 
less, indeed, I chartered a car. And in the mean¬ 
time . . . 

“Nothing impossible about it!” retorted Jiffer¬ 
dene. “There’s no doubt it’s Quartervayne—from 
the description sent on.” 

149 



150 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Ah!” I exclaimed. “Then you’re not dead 
certain ?” 

“I’m dead certain, myself,” he answered, drawing 
me away towards the barrier at the top of the plat¬ 
form. “Come on!—we must go there. I hurried off 
to stop you as soon as I heard.” 

“Where is it?” I asked. 

“Hotel—low class place—down the Docks way,” 
he replied. “The facts are these—as they came over 
the telephone. A man went to this hotel very late 
last night and booked a room, saying he wanted to 
catch one of that Batavier line steamers at noon to¬ 
day, and giving instructions that they needn’t call 
him until eleven-thirty. They called him at that 
time, got no answer, eventually entered his room, 
found him dead—murdered. From the description, 
it’s Quartervayne!” 

“But it mayn’t be,” I said, though, secretly, in 
view of what Quartervayne himself had told me 
about leaving for Holland, I felt sure that Jiffer- 
dene’s surmise was correct. “It mayn’t be!” 

“We’ll soon settle that!” he retorted grimly. 
“You know him, at any rate. Come on!—let’s get 
down there.” 

He hurried me off to the District Railway and into 
an eastbound train. I made no attempt to talk to 
him during our short journey; I was thinking hard 
about my own affairs, my next procedure. And I 
made up my mind that as soon as I had been with 
him to wherever it was we were going just then, I 


THE SECOND MURDER 


151 


would leave him and get down to Renardsmere, even 
if it was in the middle of the night and if it cost me 
ten pounds for a car. Whatever else was in the 
wind, I must have speech with Lady Renardsmere. 

We left the train at Mark Lane, and passing 
across Tower Hill and by the Mint, plunged into 
some mean and squalid streets in the immediate 
neighbourhood of St. Katherine’s Docks. Jiffer- 
dene evidently knew his way well enough. He led me 
straight to a police-station, where he was presently 
in close conversation with officials. Presently he 
pointed to me, standing apart. 

“This gentleman can identify him,” he said. “He 
knew him—well enough.” 

Once more I was forced, sorely against my will, to 
accompany Jifferdene to a mortuary. It was close 
by, and if anything it was gloomier and more sordid 
than that in which I had seen Holliment’s dead 
body. And presently I found myself looking at 
Quartervayne’s . . . 

“Yes !” I muttered. “Oh, yes ! That’s—Quarter- 
vayne! And now let’s get out of this !” 

We got out. Jifferdene took and shook my arm. 

“Put that out of your head, now, my lad!” he 
said, not unkindly. “That’s done!—had to be done, 
you know. I was right, you see. Well—that’s the 
second!” 

“How—how was it?” I asked. “You haven’t 
said.” 

“Knifed!—like the other,” he answered, with a 


152 


RIPPLING RUBY 


shake of his head. “Knifed! But this time, within 
four walls. Come on—we’ll go to this hotel where 
it was done.” 

The man who had accompanied us from the local 
police-station led us through one or two more 
shabby streets into a quiet thoroughfare at the 
lower end of which I saw a high wall and above it 
the masts and spars and funnels of ships and 
steamers. 

“St. Katherine’s Docks!” muttered Jifferdene, see¬ 
ing me look in that direction. “Likely he was going 
to sail from there. But they say he mentioned that 
Batavier Line—their boats run from nearer Lon¬ 
don Bridge. Still, that’s not many minutes sharp 
walk. And he came here, anyway—to his end.” 

He waved his hand, and I saw that we had come to 
the scene of the murder: a mean and shabby place in 
a mean and shabby street. Two or three of the 
old grey brick houses had been thrown into one: 
across the level of the first-story window a long 
narrow wooden sign ran—a blue ground with faded 
gilt letters: Kellerman’s Private Hotel. One of the 
lower windows was labelled Coffee Room; another 
Commercial Room—it passed my comprehension 
how either could invite patronage: the mere sight 
of the dirty blinds and window curtains was 
enough. 

We walked in. In a dirty entrance hall, and in 
an atmopshere redolent of stale food, stewed tea, 
mutton chops, vegetables, a man came to meet us— 


THE SECOND MURDER 


153 


a fat, frowsy man, in his shirt-sleeves, whose chief 
characteristic at that moment was a nervous 
anxiety. He made a bow that was almost an 
obeisance to the two detectives and to me, and 
hastened to open the door of what was obviously 
his own private parlour. There sat a very fat 
woman, sewing, who, on our appearance, became as 
nervous and flustered as the man. She got busy 
in offering chairs, meanwhile the man stood mute, 
watching us: it was very evident to me that he 
was sorely upset. But Jifferdene, having ascer¬ 
tained from his companion that this was Mr. Keller- 
man and that Mrs. Kellerman, put him on an easier 
footing with a word or two. 

“Nasty thing for you, this, Mr. Kellerman,” he 
said, consolingly. “No fault of yours, of course, 
but an unpleasant thing to have in your house.” 

The landlord sighed, as if in relief at hearing 
comfortable words. But the landlady spoke. 

“Yes, sir—and us knowing nothing about it, 
nothing—until the boots made that awful dis¬ 
covery,” she said. “We didn’t even know the 
gentleman was in the house!” 

“Eh?” exclaimed Jifferdene. “Didn’t know— 
why, don’t you know what customers you have in 
here?” 

“It is this way, gentlemen,” said the landlord, 
speaking in the slow, somewhat laboured fashion of 
a man who uses an acquired tongue. “The trade of 
this house is—what you call exceptional. The docks 


154 


RIPPLING RUBY 


—they are close by. People—seafaring people— 
they will come in here at all hours of the night, just 
wanting a bed for a few hours, eh! So we keep a 
night-porter, who is on duty all night long. Our¬ 
selves—me and my wife—we are hard-working peo¬ 
ple—we go to our bed at eleven. After that—we 
do not know who may be in the house—so!” 

“Who does?” demanded Jifferdene. “The night- 
porter? Just so—well, we want to see him, then.” 

The landlord went out, and presently returned 
with a man who, as Jifferdene afterwards remarked, 
looked as if he had been a professonal pugilist and 
had managed to survive a good deal of punishment. 
He had a battered nose, a scarred face, and a watch¬ 
ful eye, and it occurred to me that he would proba¬ 
bly be just as useful in ejecting a visitor as in 
receiving one. He gave the detective a quiet and 
cautious nod, and when Jifferdene invited him to 
sit down, he perched his big, heavy figure on the 
edge of a chair in such a fashion as to suggest that 
he was not the man to commit himself to anything, 
either in word or deed. 

“So you were in charge here last night, after Mr. 
and Mrs. Kellerman had retired?” suggested Jif¬ 
ferdene. “Just tell us what occurred about this 
murdered man coming here.” 

The night-porter was evidently prepared for this. 
He entered on his story with a promptitude which 
showed that he had already thought it out. 

“As far as I’m concerned, guv’nor, there was 


THE SECOND MURDER 


155 


nothing occurred as was out o’ the common!” he 
answered. “Nothing! I come on duty at eleven 
o’clock, as usual, when the boss there goes to bed—” 

“There was three gentlemen in the house, then,” 
interrupted Mrs. Kellerman. “Three highly re¬ 
spectable gentlemen—all customers. Commercials. 
Which they had all retired for the night.” 

“At eleven o’clock,” continued the night-porter, 
imperturbably. “All’s quiet, then—all’s quiet till 
five minutes past twelve—midnight. Then this 
here gentleman what we found dead this morning 
comes in. He says he wants a bedroom, and not to 
be called or bothered till eleven-thirty, ’cause his 
boat don’t sail till past noon and he’s minded for 
a good sleep. He pays for his bed and breakfast in 
advance—according to rule—four bob. Then he 
says he ain’t sleepy yet, and he’ll have a smoke. I 
shows him into the little smoke-room, side o’ the 
hall, and he asks me then if I could get him a cork¬ 
screw, a clean glass, and some fresh water? I goes 
off to get ’em, and when I comes back, he’d got a 
bottle o’ whiskey on the table in front of him. He 
drew the cork, helped himself, and sat down with his 
pipe and glass.” 

“Did he give you a drink?” enquired Jifferdene. 

“He did not! I left him,” continued the night- 
porter. “If you want to know, I’d got a drop o’ 
rum of my own, outside, where I sits, o’ nights. I’d 
just lighted my pipe and was going to read the 
evening newspaper when two men comes in at the 


156 


RIPPLING RUBY 


front door. They wanted beds, and paid for ’em. 
And seeing the smoke-room door open, and a light 
in there, they said something about a cigar and 
walked in.” 

“Before you go any further,” interrupted Jif- 
ferdene, “can you describe these men?” 

“Not in particular,” answered the night-porter, 
with a decisive shake of his head. “I didn’t take 
that notice of ’em. Seafaring men, I should say. 
They was both dressed in blue serge, and I should 
think about thirty to forty years old. Nothing re¬ 
markable about ’em—ordinary. One fellow had 
gold rings in his ears—I did notice that.” 

“Well,” said Jifferdene. “Anything happen?” 

“Not for five minutes or so,” replied the night- 
porter. “Then the man what had come in first 
knocked on the table. I went to see what he wanted. 
‘Bring two more clean glasses, my lad’ he said, ‘and 
more water—these gentlemen’ll drink with me.’ So 
I got what he wanted, and the other two pulled their 
chairs up to his table, and I left ’em talking and 
drinking together.” 

Mrs. Kellerman interpolated a remark that was 
obviously apologetic. 

“Of course,” she said, eyeing the detective 
blandly, “of course if a gentleman chooses to bring 
a bottle of spirits in with him and to offer it to any 
other gentlemen-” 

Jifferdene waved this away as unimportant, and 
nodded at the night-porter. 



THE SECOND MURDER 


157 


“Go on!” he said. “All three started hob-nob¬ 
bing. And kept it up—how long?” 

“Till they’d finished the bottle what the first man 
brought in,” answered the night-porter. “It was 
near two o’clock, then. Then they all come out 
into the hall and asked me to show ’em their rooms.” 

“How do you know they’d finished the bottle?” 
asked Jifferdene. 

“ ’Cause I looked at it when I came down and 
went to turn out the gas, empty!” 

“Were they sober?” 

“Sober enough—quiet enough, anyway. Said 
good-night civil enough to each other, and to 
me.” 

“You heard no quarrelling, or anything?” 

“Nothing at all. I heard most o’ what they said 
over their drink. They were talking about foreign 
parts—trade, and that sort o’ thing.” 

“And their bedrooms?” asked Jifferdene. “Were 
they near together?” 

“The man that came by himself—him as we 
found dead—he’d number 15. The other two— 
one had 16, the other 18. Number 15 is exactly 
opposite 16.” 

“When did you see them next?” 

“16 and 18 come down at a quarter to seven, 
just as I was going off duty. They said they didn’t 
want no breakfast, here, and went away.” 

“Did you see them take any particular direc¬ 
tion?” 


158 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“They strolled off towards the Docks,” said the 
night-porter. 

“Well—and the other man?” enquired Jiffer- 
dene, after a pause. 

The night-porter made a grimace. 

“Ah!” he said. “I’d just gone to bed when that 
come up! I goes to bed at eleven every forenoon 
and gets up six o’clock in the evening. The boots 
-—he comes and rouses me out and says he can’t 
get no answer from 15. So I goes with him, and 
after a bit me and the boss there opened the door. 
And then—well—there was blood! Knifed— 
right through his throat. And we sends for the 
police.” 

“Which they’ve had charge of everything, and 
kept the room locked, ever since, gentlemen,” re¬ 
marked Mrs. Kellerman. “There’s a constable up 
there now, in charge—perhaps he’s expecting you?” 

“Yes,” assented Jifferdene. “We’ll go up.” 

Upstairs the whole place was shabbier, more 
down-at-heel than ever. We traversed a corridor 
or two; finally came to one that led to the back of 
the house. At a window at its far end stood a 
uniformed policeman, obviously much bored. He 
came forward on seeing the local detective and pro¬ 
duced a key. A moment later we all stood in 
Number 15. 

“Nothing’s been touched or moved,” remarked 
the policeman in a low voice. “Leastways, not since 
we were called in.” 


THE SECOND MURDER 


159 


One look at the bed was enough for me—I was 
glad to turn away to the window, whither Jiffer- 
dene, for some reason or other, had repaired im¬ 
mediately on our entrance. He tapped my elbow, 
pointing with his other hand. 

“No fastening to the window-sashes,” he mut¬ 
tered. “Window open, too, now what’s outside?” 

He threw up the lower sash and looked out. Just 
beneath was the flat roof of some lower building; on 
either side there was spouting; down below was a 
court, from which a dark, narrow alley opened. 

“A man used to climbing could have got in here 
through this window,” remarked Jifferdene, mus¬ 
ingly. “It’s my notion somebody did—I don’t think 
anything of that other tale! Well—let’s have a 
look round.” 

He and the local man began to examine the room 
and the murdered man’s clothing. I at once recog¬ 
nised the suit which I had seen Quartervayne wear¬ 
ing the night before; I saw too that it had been 
treated exactly as Holliment’s clothing had—the 
padding at the shoulders had been ripped to pieces; 
wherever there was a chance of anything being 
secreted a knife had been at work. As to the dead 
man’s effects, his watch and chain—valuable things 
—lay on a chest of drawers, near it a pocketbook 
lay, in which were a number of Bank of England 
notes and a letter of credit for a considerable 
amount on an Amsterdam Bank; close by were 
several other personal things, a silver cigar-case, 


160 


RIPPLING RUBY 


a silver match-box, and so on. And there was a 
purse—empty. 

“Taken the cash, this time!” remarked Jiffer- 
dene, significantly. “But—it wasn’t that he was 
after!” 

I went outside and waited; eventually, I made my 
way down to the front door and into the street, 
sick of the whole thing. It was some time before 
Jifferdene and his companion joined me. 

“Made any discoveries?” I asked as we walked 
away. 

“There’s one thing I noticed,” remarked Jiffer- 
dene, after a pause, during which he seemed to be 
thinking hard. “I believe it’s not an uncommon 
thing, too, in hotels of that class in this part of the 
town. The door was furnished with a good lock and 
a stout bolt—no ordinary gimcrack affairs such as 
you see in better-class hotels. The thing is—did he 
use both?” 

“Couldn’t have used the bolt,” observed the other 
detective, “because the landlord opened the door 
with a master-key. If the bolt had been shot 

_5? 

“Well, it’s my belief the murderer entered by the 
window!” said Jifferdene. “However, whichever 
way he entered, he did his work! This is that sneak¬ 
ing Chinaman, Mr. Cranage,” he continued when 
we had got to ourselves. “Didn’t Mr. Cheng tell 
us that there’d be a second murder, and a third, 
and-” 



THE SECOND MURDER 


161 


“You think the two murders are by the same 
hand?” I suggested. 

“Sure of it!” he answered. “Look at the cir¬ 
cumstances ! Quartervayne, of course, was fol¬ 
lowed down here—and done in! It’s the Chink!” 

“You don’t suspect the two men who followed 
him into the hotel?” I asked. 

“I don’t! I think they were just casual visitors 
—like himself. No—it’s some slit-eyed Chinaman! 
Look here!” 

He drew from his pocket something carefully 
wrapped in soft paper and his own handkerchief, 
and having removed the wrappings revealed a plain, 
common bedroom tumbler, which he held up 
between me and the light. There, on its sides, I 
saw clearly the imprint of two unusually slender 
forefingers and of a thumb. 

“That’s not been done by any European hand!” 
said Jifferdene, triumphantly. “It’s an Eastern 
thumb and Eastern fingers that did that! He took 
a drink of water after his bloody work, and—there 
you are! Mr. Cranage, we’ll have to rake Lon¬ 
don to get that Chink, or there’ll be another of these 
affairs. But—who will it be next? However— 
don’t you get frightened. Stick to me in the day¬ 
time, and keep to your hotel after dark, and . . .” 

I was not going to my hotel, though I said no¬ 
thing to make Jifferdene think that I wasn’t. I got 
away from him, on a plausible excuse. Then, to 
put some heart into me, I went and ate a good 


162 


RIPPLING RUBY 


dinner, resolutely thrusting away the gruesome 
recollections of what I had just seen. And later 
I went off to a garage, and having plenty of money 
about me and being utterly careless as to how it 
flew, chartered a good car and got out of London. 
And at close on one o’clock in the morning, I made 
up the drive to Peggie Manson’s house, resolved on 
seeing her. 


CHAPTER XIII 

MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 

Manson Lodge —designed to his own tastes and 
ordered by Peggie’s father, the late famous trainer, 
was a big house, with more than one main entrance. 
But by that time I knew it well enough and made 
straight for a door that stood just beneath Peg¬ 
gie’s own bedroom, the windows of which overlooked 
the stables and their adjacent buildings. There 
was a bell in that door, an electric bell, which com¬ 
municated with Peggie’s room, so that she could be 
summoned at any hour of the night. And I had 
just put a finger on it and had heard the sharp 
response in the room above, through a half-open 
window, when a man, tall, burly, seemed to start up 
from nowhere—in reality out of the shrubbery close 
by—and laid an unpleasantly strong hand on my 
arm. 

“Hullo, you!” he demanded. 

“Hullo, yourself!” I retorted, starting back from 
him. “Who the devil are you? Take your hand 
off!” 


163 


164 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Not till I know what you’re after, young fel¬ 
low!” he answered. “What are you doing prowling 
round here, this time o’ night?” 

“What are you doing here—on private ground?” 
I demanded. “Tell me that!” 

“That’s my business!” he retorted. “What’s 
yours ?” 

“None of your business!” I said. “You let my 
arm go, or-” 

But at that moment a vision of white draperies 
appeared at the window above us and I heard 
Peggie’s voice. 

“What’s all that?” she exclaimed. “Who is it?” 

I got in first. 

“Peggie!” I called, using her Christian name in 
my excitement. “It’s I—Cranage! Come down, 
and let me in! I’ve motored all the way from 
town to see you!—I must see you at once. Come 
down—and bring Miss Hepple with you. And 
there’s a man here, prowling about your grounds 

_99 

“Oh!” she cried. “All right, Mr. Robindale— 
that’s Mr. Cranage, Lady Renardsmere’s private 
secretary. I’ll come down at once.” 

Mr. Robindale, whoever he was, let my arm go, 
and growled. 

“Why didn’t you say who you were?” he de¬ 
manded. 

“Why didn’t you say who you were?” I retorted. 
“And what’re you doing here, anyhow?” 




MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 165 


He edged away from me in the direction of the 
stables. 

“Ask your mistress!” he muttered. 

He went off, still growling, and I went up to the 
door and waited. Some minutes passed; then a light 
appeared behind the glass panels; locks and bolts 
were undone, the door opened, and there, wide-eyed 
with astonishment, stood Peggie and Miss Hepple, 
in dressing gowns, and carrying lamps. I made 
in, and with my own hand closed and locked the 
door. 

“Who’s that fellow outside?” I asked abruptly. 
“He’s left the marks of his great fingers on my arm, 
confound him!” 

Peggie, still staring wonderingly at me, shook 
her head. 

“Since yesterday, for some reason or other only 
known to herself, Lady Renardsmere has planted a 
couple of private detectives on me,” she answered. 
“One’s on the watch all day; the other all night. 
That’s the night man—Robindale. But—you?” 

“Take me into the dining-room and give me a 
drink, first,” I answered. “I’ve come as fast as I 
could—chartered a special car—to see you and 
Miss Hepple before going to see Lady Renards¬ 
mere. You’ve no idea what I’ve got to tell you— 
aU in continuation of that Portsmouth affair! 
There’s murder arising out of that—wholesale 
murder! And my God!—I don’t know which way 
to turn!” 


166 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Come into the little morning room,” said Peggie. 
She bustled about, lighting a lamp, getting me 
whiskey and soda and biscuits, and commanding 
me to say no more until I had had a drink. Then, 
when she saw I was getting a bit calmer, she 
nodded re-assuringly. “Now!” she went on. “Tell 
us all about it—and take your time—we’re safe, 
here.” 

The three of us, I dusty and travel-stained, Peg¬ 
gie in a smart dressing-gown with her great mane 
of hair coiled loosely about her shapely head, Miss 
Hepple in a multifarious collection of shawls and 
wraps, sat gathered around a table. And over it, 
looking from one to the other of the two pairs of 
eyes which never left mine, I told the full story of 
what had happened to me since Spiller fetched me 
away from Renardsmere House not forty-eight 
hours before. I spared no detail, the thing took 
some time to tell: the clock on the mantelpiece 
struck three as I made an end. 

“And that’s that!” I concluded. “And—what 
am I to do?” 

“There’s one thing I don’t quite understand,” 
said Peggie. “Why didn’t you tell the London 
police all you knew—about Neamore, and the 
luncheon at the Ritz with Holliment and Quarter- 
vayne, and so on? It’ll have to come out.” 

“Maybe—but I didn’t want it to come out 
through me,” I answered. “You see, if I’d told all 
that at once, how did I know that before I could 


MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 167 


warn her, Lady Renardsmere mightn’t be placed in 
some danger? The news would have gone beyond 
the police—it might have got into the papers, and 
then this Chinaman and his gang—for there must 
be a gang!—would have got to know—lots of things 
that I hope they don’t know now.” 

“He did right!” remarked Miss Hepple suddenly. 
“He must tell Lady Renardsmere all that he’s told 
us, and leave her to inform the police.” 

“Of what?” asked Peggie. 

“I think the whole thing is very simple,” replied 
Miss Hepple, who, I had observed, had followed my 
story with concentrated and even absorbed atten¬ 
tion. “It seems so to me, at any rate. Mr. Cheng, 
the wealthy and apparently influential Chinaman, 
is robbed, in Paris, by his secretary Chuh Sin, of 
some exceedingly valuable article—we don’t know 
what. Chuh Sin, with this in his possession, es¬ 
capes to England, and comes to lodge at Holliment’s 
Temperance Hotel in Portsmouth. Holliment and 
Quartervayne (never mind what Quartervayne says 
to the contrary, or doesn’t say!) undoubtedly pos¬ 
sess themselves of the stolen article. Chuh Sin goes 
in pursuit, and presumably enlists the assistance of 
some English crooks—isn’t that the word? Holli¬ 
ment is tracked and murdered. But they didn’t 
find the stolen article on him. So they tracked 
and murdered Quartervayne. Now,” concluded 
Miss Hepple, looking hard at me through her 
spectacles, which she had not forgotten to assume 


168 


RIPPLING RUBY 


in her hurried dressing. “Did they find it on 
him?” 

“God knows!” said I. “But I reckon—not!” 

“I don’t think they did,” she said, nodding with 
judicial emphasis. “I do not think they did. There¬ 
fore-” 

“They’re still on the prowl?” I suggested. 

“Exactly!” assented Miss Hepple. “And we shall 
hear of another murder!” 

Peggie drew in her breath with a shudder of hor¬ 
ror. But Miss Hepple and I appeared to be fellows 
in the stern art of looking facts in the face. 

“Neamore—next?” I said, glancing at her. 

“I should say so,” she replied. “If they know— 
what you know.” 

“And if they go working back,” I said, “then— 
well, Lady Renardsmere, next?” 

But Miss Hepple shook her head. 

“No!” she answered. “I think that—if they can 
only get inside knowledge—the next will be Pen- 
nithwaite, the solicitor. For I haven’t the slight¬ 
est doubt that the article—which must be one of 
most exceptional value and importance considering 
what’s being done to regain possession of it—is 
now in Pennithwaite’s hands!” 

“You think I carried it to him?” I suggested. 

“I do!” she assented. “I put it in this way. 
Holliment, Quartervayne, and Neamore were all 
known to each other, before this affair began. When 
Holliment and Quartervayne went to London, after 



MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 169 


fleeing from Portsmouth, they told Neamore of what 
they’d got. It was decided, between the three, that 
Neamore should sell it. Neamore is evidently a man 
who knows things—anyway, it’s quite certain that he 
knew of a certain weakness of Lady Renardsmere.” 

“What weakness?” I asked. 

Miss Hepple glanced at Peggie and smiled. 

“I thought everybody knew of that!” said Peggie. 
“It’s common property!” 

“Evidently Mr. Cranage doesn’t,” remarked Miss 
Hepple. She turned to me again. “Lady Renards¬ 
mere,” she continued, “has a perfect passion for 
buying precious stones ! She must have spent a con¬ 
siderable amount of the vast fortune which Sir 
William left her in buying them. Nobody knows 
what she buys them for! she doesn’t wear them. 
Nobody knows, either, where she keeps them—un¬ 
less it’s at her bank, or at some Safe Deposit. But 
some of her purchases have been notorious—I 
should have thought you’d have heard of them, Mr. 
Cranage. She bought the Metchnikoffski Diamond, 
some years ago—a fabulous price. Nobody’s ever 
seen it since. She possesses the most marvellous 
rope of pearls in the world—to complete it, some 
little time ago, she gave some foreign dealer a tre¬ 
mendous sum for three pearls said to be unequalled 
for size and purity. Oh, it’s all well known! And 
it’s my opinion that this stolen article, through the 
successive thefts of which men are getting murdered, 
is some rare stone, and that Neamore, Holliment, 


170 


RIPPLING RUBY 


and Quartervayne offered it and sold it to her. I 
think she brought it home with her from London 
that night, and sent you back to London with it, 
to Mr. Pennithwaite, next day. That, Mr. Cranage, 
is where it is!” concluded Miss Hepple, with a gentle 
smack of her hand on the table. “And I’m suf¬ 
ficiently inquisitive to admit that I wish I knew 
what it is!” 

“So do I!” said Peggie. “Another big diamond, 
I should think.” 

I considered matters for awhile, silently. 

“I daresay you’re quite right in all you’ve said, 
ma’am,” I remarked at last, turning to Miss Hepple. 
“And I think I’m right in saying that the best and 
the first thing for me to do is to tell Lady 
Renardsmere all that I’ve told you to-night. Eh?” 

“Of course!” they replied, together. “You can 
do nothing else. And—at once!” 

“Then,” I said, turning to Peggie. “You come 
with me! It isn’t that I’m afraid of tackling her 
alone, but it will be better to have some—moral 
support.” 

“No!” answered Peggie. She pointed across the 
table. “Miss Hepple will go with you! She’s the 
proper person—and just the person! When 
you’ve told your tale, Miss Hepple will point the 
moral to Lady Renardsmere. Take her!” 

“Will you be so good, ma’am?” I asked. 

“I’ll go with you,” answered Miss Hepple, with 
•something very like alacrity. “We’ll go straight 


MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 171 


there after breakfast. And in the meantime, as it’s 
half-past three o’clock, I suggest that we go to bed. 
Come with me, Mr. Cranage, and I’ll put you in 
the Blue Room.” 

I slept soundly for the remainder of that night, 
at any rate. Something in Miss Hepple’s calm and 
commonsense view of things had pulled me to¬ 
gether, and I had no visions of Holliment nor 
dreams of Quartervayne. And when we all met at 
breakfast, at nine o’clock, I was grimly determined 
to have things out with Lady Renardsmere—sup¬ 
ported by Miss Hepple—and to impress on her the 
danger in which we all stood who are mixed up in 
any way with the theft of that infernal Something! 
—whatever it was. 

“Why have these detective chaps—private or 
otherwise—been shoved on you?” I asked of Peg¬ 
gie, seeing one of them crossing the grounds with 
Bradgett. “Lady Renardsmere’s idea, of course?” 

“Of course!” she answered. “She never even con¬ 
sulted me—merely sent me word that henceforth, 
right up to Derby Day, these two men would be 
here, one for day duty, the other for night, and 
that Rippling Ruby was to be watched night and 
day.” 

“Does she fear any interference?” I asked. 

“Don’t know what she fears, or thinks, or any¬ 
thing!” said Peggie. “I’ll take care there’s no in¬ 
terference! Lord!—as if Bradgett and I haven’t 
kept a perpetual watch on the filly for long months! 


172 


RIPPLING RUBY 


No, I don’t know what her idea is. What I do 
know is something else.” 

“What?” I asked. 

Peggie involuntarily lowered her voice. 

“I hear things!” she murmured. “So does Brad- 
gett. Lady Renardsmere is backing Rippling Ruby 
no end! Backing her to win a perfect fortune! I 
hear that there’s scarcely a principal bookmaker 
that she hasn’t done business with. Colossal busi¬ 
ness !—never been anything like it!” 

“Well, you say Rippling Ruby’s dead certain to 
win?” I said, “so-” 

“I’m as dead certain of that as a mortal can be 
certain about anything!” she answered quickly. “If 
there is anything that can beat her, it’ll win—but I 
don’t believe there is! I believe she’ll win in a com¬ 
mon canter—I’d plank my last penny—no, that’s 
nothing!—I mean, I’d put down everything I’ve got, 
money, house, land, on her, and never have a sec¬ 
ond’s fear. But I don’t bet. And-” 

“Well?” I asked, after she had paused awhile. 
“What?” 

“There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,” she 
quoted, with a shake of the head. “You never can 
tell, after all. What I say is that granted all goes 
right Rippling Ruby will win the Derby as sure 
as my name’s Peggie Manson!” 

“In which case Lady Renardsmere will-” 

“Rake in another mountain of money!” she said, 
quickly. “Queer woman! Well—mind you two 





MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 173 


stand up to her about this business!—impress her 
with its dangers.” 

“I’m glad Miss Hepple’s going with me,” said I. 
“Glad isn’t the word, though! I’m intensely grate¬ 
ful—and relieved. Lady Renardsmere isn’t exactly 
the sort of person to tackle when a queer affair like 
this turns up.” 

Presently Miss Hepple and I set out. We dis¬ 
cussed Lady Renardsmere as we crossed the valley 
and made for the house. 

“There’s a certain thing you’ve got to under¬ 
stand about Lady Renardsmere in relation to this 
matter, Mr. Cranage,” said my companion as we ap¬ 
proached the grounds. “I told you early this morn¬ 
ing that in my opinion that some precious stone was 
at the bottom of all this, and that Lady Renards¬ 
mere had no doubt acquired it from Neamore. Now 
I’ll tell you something that’s well known—Lady 
Renardsmere is superstitious about precious stones, 
to the very last degree of superstition! And if she’s 
got hold of this, and has some strange superstition 
about it, heaven and earth may be moved in the 
attempt, but nothing will get it out of her!” 

“Not even the fear of murder?” I exclaimed. 

“I don’t think she knows what fear is,” said Miss 
Hepple. “She’s utterly indifferent to all that sort 
of thing. Still—to use a slang phrase—pile it on 
when you tell her of all you saw in London.” 

We found Lady Renardsmere in her business 
room. She seemed much surprised to see Miss 


174 


RIPPLING RUBY 


Hepple, but on my immediately explaining that Miss 
Hepple had come there at my particular request, 
to speak to her on my behalf, she became unusually 
amiable and expressed not only willingness but 
curiosity to know what it was all about. 

“Shut the door, then, Cranage, and sit you both 
down and go ahead!” she said. “I was going dig¬ 
ging, but it’ll wait. What’s it all about, my lad?” 

I told her. It took just an hour and twenty 
minutes to tell—by the clock. She behaved beauti¬ 
fully. There was a box of cigarettes—strong, 
black, rank things that she imported from some¬ 
where—and she smoked one after another, listening 
attentively. And when I’d finished she nodded, as 
if with great approval. 

“Very well put, my boy!” she said. “Neat, pre¬ 
cise, concise, well arranged!—I don’t know but 
what you ought to have been a barrister. We’ll 
have a talk about that, Cranage, for you’re still 
a child. But now—what do you want me to 
say?” 

For the life of me, when it came to it, I didn’t 
know what I wanted her to say. 

“I—I wanted you to know everything, Lady 
Renardsmere,” I stammered. 

“Well, now I know,” she said. “And—I don’t 
mind saying that I did buy something from those 
three men, believing they’d a right to sell it.” 

“What was it?” I asked unthinkingly. 

“That’s my business, my boy!” she retorted. “I 


MISS HEPPLE TAKES A HAND 175 


can be as close as your Mr. Cheng on that point. 
I’m not going to tell anybody!” 

“In that case,” said I, “these chaps—for there 
must be more than one, with Chuh Sin as centre- 
point and inspirer—these chaps, Lady Renardsmere, 
will go for every single one of us that’s been con¬ 
nected with the affair, and we may as well prepare 
to have our throats slit!” 

“Cheerful!” she said, with a satirical laugh. “But 
I’m not a bit impressed, Cranage, I’m not afraid!” 

“I’m horribly afraid!” I retorted, with emphasis. 
“And I’m not ashamed to say so, either! If you’d 
seen what I’ve seen, Lady Renardsmere, you—well, 
I think you’d throw that thing, whatever it may be, 
into the nearest ditch!” 

She smiled, in her queer grim fashion, and 
glanced at my companion, till then silent. 

“According to you, my lad,” she said, “if I did, 
they’d only cut my throat to make me tell which 
ditch I’d thrown it into! But come!—what’s Miss 
Hepple got to say about it? You’re one of those em¬ 
inently sensible women, Miss Hepple, aren’t you?” 

“I should like to have a few words with you in 
private, Lady Renardsmere,” said Miss Hepple. 
“I’m sure Mr. Cranage won’t mind?—he knows me 
by this time.” 

I left them together and went out on the terrace. 
Miss Hepple remained with Lady Renardsmere a 
long time. When she came out she gave me a re¬ 
assuring look. 


176 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“We’ve had a talk,” she said. “I think she’ll be 
able to settle matters—satisfactorily. If I were 
you, I should say no more, and do no more. Let 
the police follow their own methods—you keep 
quiet. Don’t bother yourself. She’s no fear! Let 
things go on—as usual.” 

She went off, with another reassuring nod. Lady 
Renardsmere came out. 

“You didn’t say a word to the police about me, 
Cranage?” she said. “No? That’s right, my boy! 
Now then, just settle down. It’s no affair of yours, 
anyhow.” 

I settled down—after a fashion. Three days 
went by. Nothing happened. Then, on the fourth 
morning after my return, I opened the newspaper 
and read that Neamore had been murdered, in Ken¬ 
sington Gardens, in broad daylight, about three 
o’clock on the previous afternoon. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE THIRD MURDER 

Because of the out-of-the-way situation of 
Renardsmere House, the daily newspapers rarely 
arrived there before noon, that morning they were a 
little late, and when they came Lady Renardsmere 
had gone out—to Manson Lodge, in her pony-phae¬ 
ton. So there I sat, with the papers and that awful 
news before me, with nobody to talk to about it, 
and wondering what was going to happen next. 

That was the third murder within a week! Was 
there to be a fourth? 

There was not much about it in the papers. 
Lady Renardsmere took in three dailies and a couple 
of sporting dailies: the accounts in the dailies 
seemed so much alike that I concluded they had been 
supplied by one of the news agencies: indeed, the 
wording in each was similar- 

“An extraordinarily desperate murder, of a 
character closely resembling the recent murders in 
Maida Vale, and near St. Katharine’s Docks, was 
committed about three o’clock yesterday afternoon 
177 



178 


RIPPLING RUBY 


in Kensington Gardens. The victim has been iden¬ 
tified as Mr. Percy Neamore, a commission agent, of 
Ashmore Road, Paddington. Mr. Neamore ap¬ 
pears to have been attacked in a quiet part of the 
gardens and stabbed to death. His clothing had 
been searched and cut to pieces in the fashion al¬ 
ready familiar in the two murders referred to above, 
and that a quest for some object and not robbery 
of money or valuables was the murderer or mur¬ 
derers’ motive is evidenced by the fact that a con¬ 
siderable sum in Bank of England notes, some fine 
diamond rings, and a gold watch and chain re¬ 
mained on the dead man. As far as the police are 
aware, no one witnessed any attack or scuffle, and 
at present there is no clue. What appears to be 
plain is that this is the third of the series of mur¬ 
ders which began with that of the man Holliment 
in Blomfield Road, a week ago. Great activity is 
being shown at Scotland Yard, but its officials are 
unusually reticent.” 

I read and reread that, staring at it as if I were 
fascinated. And all the time there was ding-dong¬ 
ing in my brain, over and over, and over again the 
question—who next?—who next?—who next? The 
fact was, my nerve was giving way, and it was little 
wonder that I jumped violently when a sudden knock 
sounded on my door. 

A footman entered. He gave me a curious, side¬ 
long glance. 

“Two gentlemen asking for you, sir,” he an- 


THE THIRD MURDER 


179 


nounced. “They won’t give any names—one said 
you’d know him when you saw him.” 

I hurried out. Jifferdene!—as I had already 
guessed. With him, another man, a stranger, but 
obviously of Jifferdene’s profession. 

“Come in!” said I, and ushered them into my 
room, pointing them to chairs near my desk, on 
which one of the papers lay outspread. I pointed 
to the big letters announcing the murder. “I’ve 
read it!” I observed, nodding at Jifferdene. “That’s 
the third! My God!—how long is it going on?” 

Without answering that he waved a hand towards 
his companion. 

“My friend—and associate—Detective-Sergeant 
Beacher,” he said. 

Beacher and I exchanged nods. But I was not 
interested in Beacher—just then, and I turned on 
Jifferdene. 

“What have you come here for?” I demanded, 
querulously, I daresay. “I thought I wasn’t 
wanted until-” 

“Haven’t said I wanted you, yet!” interrupted 
Jifferdene, good-humouredly. “Don’t you let your¬ 
self get upset, Mr. Cranage—that’ll do no good. 
You’re a bit nervy, aren’t you, now?” 

“Who wouldn’t be?” I retorted. “After all this 
—and now another-” 

“Well, well, it can’t go on for ever!” he said, 
philosophically, “but listen!—is Lady Renardsmere 
anywhere about?” 




180 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“She isn’t!” I said. “Lady Renardsmere has gone 
over to Chilverton Downs, to Miss Manson’s stables. 
I don’t know when she’ll be back. She may stay to 
lunch there. But—you don’t want her?” 

“That’s just what we do want!” answered Jif- 
ferdene, coolly. “That’s what we’ve come down 
from town for. We must see Lady Renardsmere if 
we have to wait all the afternoon for her.” 

“Why?” I demanded. 

“Because her name’s come into this business,” he 
replied promptly. “That’s why!” 

“How has her name come into this business?” I 
asked, “and since when?” 

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “There was no trouble 
about identifying this man Neamore—he had cards 
on him, and also he was personally identified within 
half-an-hour of being found. So his name appeared, 
d’ye see, in last evening’s papers. Well, lateish last 
night, a gentleman—man about town, and very 
familiar with the West End—came to headquarters 
and gave us some queer news. He said about a week 
or so ago, he was lunching at the Ritz one day, and 
he saw Neamore, whom he knew as a turf commis¬ 
sion agent in a small way of business, lunching with 
Lady Renardsmere and two other men, whom, from 
his description of them, I believe to have been Holli- 
ment and Quartervayne. Queer sort of company for 
her ladyship, eh, Mr. Cranage?” 

“You know very well that you do get mixed up 
with queer company in relation to turf matters,” I 


THE THIRD MURDER 


181 


said. “Lady Renardsmere, as you’re aware, is an 
owner, and she probably had business with these 
men.” 

“Every single man-jack of whom has been done 
in, since!” he remarked, with a grim look at his 
companion. “All right, Mr. Cranage! But we 
want to know what Lady Renardsmere knew about 
Neamore, and what she was doing there at the Ritz 
with him and the other two—we want to know 
everything!” 

“Lady Renardsmere is a very masterful and arbi¬ 
trary woman,” I said. “She’ll probably tell you to 
mind your own business! If she had business—rac¬ 
ing business—with them, why shouldn’t she lunch 
with these three men? What’s that got to do with 
their being murdered—afterwards? I suppose you 
agree there’s such a thing as coincidence?” 

“Ain’t had any dealings with it in my career!” he 
answered, sardonically. “However, I daresay Lady 
Renardsmere can tell us a bit. We’ll wait for her, 
anyway. There’s no denying the fact that she knew 
Neamore. And Neamore is done in!” 

“I suppose you know all the particulars?” I sug¬ 
gested. “Was—was it like the other affairs?” 

“Like and unlike,” answered Jifferdene. “For 
calm, cool, daring impudence, as a murder, I should 
think it never was equalled! Beacher and I, we 
were talking about it coming down, and we agreed 
that we’d never heard of anything like it. Broad 
daylight!” 


182 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Public park, too!” muttered Beacher. “Ken¬ 
sington Gardens ! Incredible, I call it! And yet— 
done! No getting over that.” 

“How was it?” I asked. 

Jifferdene settled himself more comfortably in his 
easy chair. 

“Well,” he said, “of course, you know Kensing¬ 
ton Gardens? You know where the Lancaster Gate 
entrance is, on the top side, near the Fountains? 
Know it all well enough, eh?—very well, then you’ll 
know that between Lancaster Gate and the Round 
Pond there are paths and roadways, and that be¬ 
tween them there are stretches of turf, and trees, 
and here and there shrubberies. You’ll know, 
too, that there are chairs about, under the trees, 
and so on for which you pay a copper or so 

_5 J 

“I know Kensington Gardens and all about it as 
well as any man living!” I interrupted. “Used to 
live close by!” 

“Well,” he continued, “that simplifies things. 
About twenty minutes to four yesterday afternoon, 
a man who was collecting copper for the chairs was 
passing across a stretch of turf, about half-way 
between Lancaster Gate and the Round Pond, when 
he noticed a man who was sitting in a peculiar 
attitude at the foot of a beech tree—one of a little 
grove of trees in a quiet spot. The attitude was so 
peculiar—propped up against the trunk, with arms 
outstretched—that he went up to him. He at once 



THE THIRD MURDER 


183 


saw that the man was dead, and he hurried to get 
assistance. 

“The first notion of the police when they arrived 
was that it was a case of suicide, but they soon saw 
that it was one of murder. A card case, found in 
the man’s waistcoat pocket, revealed his identity— 
but that was still further and more definitely estab¬ 
lished a few minutes later. Before the police could 
remove the body, a young woman appeared on the 
scene, who said that the dead man was a friend of 
hers, that she’d made an appointment to meet him 
thereabouts at four o’clock, and who gave his name, 
address, and occupation. So of course there’s no 
doubt whatever about his identity. And I may tell 
you Mr. Cranage, that last evening I fetched that 
landlord from the Warrington Hotel in Maida Vale, 
and he identified him as the young fellow who’d been 
in his house with Holliment. There’s no doubt about 
that, either!—nor that Neamore, Holliment, and 
Quartervayne had been, a couple of days previously, 
with Lady Renardsmere at the Ritz Hotel.” 

“Tell him of that second reason why we want 
Lady Renardsmere,” suggested Beacher, who seemed 
to be a silent sort of man. 

“Aye, just so!” responded Jifferdene. He glanced 
at the door as if to assure himself that it was shut, 
and turned to me with one of his confidential winks. 
“You know, Mr. Cranage, that in the other cases 
there were certain similar features? Well, they 
were present again here! To be sure, this time, as 


184 


RIPPLING RUBY 


in Quartervayne’s case they’d taken whatever cash, 
gold and silver, Neamore had on him. But they’d 
left untouched a wad of bank-notes, representing 
several hundred pounds, a gold watch and chain, 
two or three diamond rings, and a diamond scarf 
pin—he was a dressy man, poor fellow! That they’d 
been on the search again was proved by the fact that 
they’d ripped his coat to rags at the shoulders— 
and so on, just as in the other cases. However, we 
think they got something, this time.” 

“What?” I exclaimed. 

“Well,” he answered, “there was a small leather 
box, velvet-lined, lying in the grass close by, empty. 
It had evidently contained something which the 
murderer had extracted before throwing the case 
aside. And there was a pocket-book, a rather big 
one, thrown aside, also empty. Now this young 
woman who came up, and who knew Neamore well, 
says that he always carried a lot of papers in that 
pocket-book—it wasn’t really so much a pocket- 
book as a letter-case. She says that she’d often seen 
Neamore pull it out, and consult papers in it, and 
that it was always bursting with papers. Well, there 
wasn’t a paper in it, nor on him! They’d taken the 
lot!” 

“Well?” I said, as he paused, looking significantly 
at me. “What’s your notion about that, Jiffer- 
dene ?” 

“We think it highly probable, considering our 
knowledge of the fact that Lady Renardsmere un- 


THE THIRD MURDER 


185 


doubtedly knew Neamore, that these fellows, who¬ 
ever they may be, have got her name and address 
from these stolen papers,” he answered. “In addi¬ 
tion to wanting to get some information from Lady 
Renardsmere, we want to warn her. This lot, Mr. 
Cranage, it’s very evident, will stop at nothing— 
until we get hold of ’em!” 

“Perhaps Mr. Cranage can tell us something 
about Lady Renardsmere and Neamore?” observed 
Beacher, giving me a questioning glance. “I sup¬ 
pose he’ll know-” 

“You forget—or you don’t know—that I’ve only 
been in Lady Renardsmere’s employment a very 
short time,” I answered, more determined than ever 
not to commit myself. “You must ask questions of 
her.” 

“Strong-minded party, ain’t she?” suggested Jif- 
ferdene. “I’ve heard so. Bit eccentric, too, I’ve 
heard that. However—we’ve got to be listened to, 
eh, Beacher?” 

“I believe you!” asserted Beacher, with convic¬ 
tion, “not half!” 

Lady Renardsmere presently came back. I left 
the detectives in my room, and went to her. She 
held up a hand as soon as she saw me. 

“I’ve heard all about it, Cranage!” she exclaimed. 
“I saw a newspaper at Peggie Manson’s. And I’m 
not going to discuss it! You’re safe here, and-” 

“It’s not that, Lady Renardsmere, and I wasn’t 
going to say anything about my own safety,” I re- 





186 


RIPPLING RUBY 


torted, feeling rather nettled by her tone. “I’ll 
contrive to safeguard myself, as far as I can, some¬ 
how. But that’s not why I came in. There are two 
men here, waiting in my room, who want to see you.” 

A portentous frown gathered on the old lady’s 
face. 

“Men? To see me?” she exclaimed. “What men?” 

“Scotland Yard men—detectives,” I answered, 
brusquely, and keeping a sharp eye on her. “I 
know one, Detective-Sergeant JifFerdene.” 

“What do they want with me?” she demanded 
angrily. “Who sent them? You haven’t said any¬ 
thing, Cranage? You said the other day that you 
hadn’t! You know what I mean?—about Neamore 
coming here? You haven’t mentioned that—or me 
—to any of these people?” 

“I haven’t said one word about you or Neamore 
to any of them, Lady Renardsmere!” I replied. “I 
told you I hadn’t. I think that their visit—from 
what they’ve said to me—arises out of yesterday’s 
affair, out of Neamore’s murder. They know some¬ 
thing. They know, for instance,” I continued, 
watching her narrowly, “that you lunched with 
Neamore, Holliment, and Quartervayne at the Ritz 
Hotel about a week or so ago.” 

That told. She stared at me, almost incredu¬ 
lously, for a full minute. 

“How do they know that?” she exclaimed. 

“I suppose a great many people know you, Lady 
Renardsmere,” I said. “Your town house, in Park 


THE THIRD MURDER 


187 


Lane, isn’t so very far away from the Ritz, is it? 
I imagine that somebody who knows you saw you at 
the Ritz with these men and, when enquiries began 
to be made after the murder of Neamore yesterday, 
told the detectives. These things come out.” 

She suddenly lifted her hand and pointed to the 
door which I had left slightly open. 

“Shut it!” she said, peremptorily. “Sit down, 
Cranage. Now then, my lad, what do these fellows 
want ?” 

“I think they want to ask you some questions, 
Lady Renardsmere,” I replied. “About what you 
knew of Neamore—and the other two.” 

“Have they told you anything?” she asked. “I 
mean—since they came here, this morning?” 

“About Neamore’s murder, a good deal,” I 
answered. “The circumstances-” 

She waved her hand impatiently. 

“No—no!” she exclaimed. “I don’t care a hang 
about Neamore’s murder, not I—nor the others, 
either. I mean—about me?” 

“I don’t know that they know anything about 
you,” I said, “other, that is, than that you were with 
these three men at the Ritz. They want informa¬ 
tion, Lady Renardsmere!—they’re working up their 
case.” 

She sat silent for a while, drumming her fingers 
on the desk before her. 

“What time did they come?” she asked suddenly. 

“About half-past twelve,” I replied. 



188 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“And it’s now nearly two—lunch time,” she said. 
“Have they had anything?” 

“Nothing!” said I. 

“Hand them over to Burton, Cranage, and tell 
him to give them lunch,” she commanded. “Tell 
him to look well after them—I know what those 
fellows like. See that they have anything they 
fancy in the way of drinks—cigars, too. After¬ 
wards—I’ll see about it.” 

I went back to Jifferdene and Beacher and with¬ 
out committing myself to any engagement on Lady 
Renardsmere’s behalf, invited them to lunch, and 
carried them off to the butler, who presently in¬ 
stalled them in a quiet little room, and—after my 
whispered and particular instructions—proceeded 
to serve them with ver}^ generous hospitality. 

“Lady Renardsmere,” I said, as I left them, 
“hopes that you will consider yourselves at home 
and enjoy yourselves—I’ll see you after a while.” 

I lunched, as usual, in my own room, wondering 
what was going to come of all this. Would Lady 
Renardsmere tell these two men anything? I knew 
well enough by that time what a queer, masterful 
woman she was, and what difficulty anybody would 
have in extracting information from her that she 
didn’t care to give. To me the question was—what 
was the precise nature of her transactions with the 
three men who, almost immediately afterwards, had 
each been brutally murdered. Would she tell? 

At three o’clock, I went down to the two detec- 


THE THIRD MURDER 


189 


tives. They had evidently done themselves very 
well, indeed, in every way, and between the last 
whiffs of a choice Partiigas, Jifferdene voiced their &**■- 
joint warm sense of Lady Renardsmere’s lavish hos¬ 
pitality. 

“But it’s getting on, Mr. Cranage,” he concluded, 
pulling out his watch. “We want to be getting back 
to town. When will her ladyship see us ?” 

“I’ll see about it,” I answered. “I’ll enquire now.” 

Outside, in the lower hall, I found Burton. He 
drew me aside, with a knowing look. 

“Her Ladyship’s gone, Mr. Cranage,” he 
whispered. “Gone a good hour ago—with her maid. 

I don’t know where she’s gone—I should say to 
town. Walker took ’em from the garden entrance, 
quietly—no luggage. And she left a message for 
you with me—there’s no need for those two gentle¬ 
men to wait—she’s nothing whatever to say to 
them!” 


CHAPTER XV 


THE AMERICAN TOURIST 

The butler and I looked at each other. He was 
an old and very confidential servant, and withal a 
dependable and sensible man. There was a limp 
silence between us then, probably realising that I 
was very young and he himself becoming elderly, he 
spoke, glancing around us as if to suggest secrecy. 

“I imagine that all this”—he waved a hand in the 
direction of the room in which Jifferdene and 
Beacher were still lingering over their cigars—“all 
this, Mr. Cranage, is on account of that Neamore 
affair? Those two—in there—they’re detectives, 
of course! I spotted ’em, Mr. Cranage, at once!” 

“What do you know about the Neamore affair, 
Burton?” I asked. 

“I’ve seen the newspapers this morning, sir, as 
most people have!” he replied, “and of course I re¬ 
member this Neamore coming here the other day— 
I saw his card before it was taken in to you—and 
her ladyship carrying him off in her car. And 
now he’s murdered!—and quick on the murder, these 
two men come here! And—her ladyship won’t see 
’em.” 


190 


THE AMERICAN TOURIST 


191 


“You know Lady Renardsmere well enough, Bur¬ 
ton, to know that nobody and nothing can make her 
do what she doesn’t want to do,” I said. “If she 
says that she’s nothing whatever to say to these two 
—well, there you are! But did she leave no other 
message?—no message for me?” 

“Nothing but what I’ve told you of, Mr. Cran¬ 
age,” he answered. 

“And—no instructions?—for you?” I suggested. 

He shook his head, smiling to himself. 

“Then—she’ll probably be back to-night, espe¬ 
cially as she took no luggage?” I said. “Just ran 
up to town for a few hours, eh?” 

Again he smiled—enigmatically. 

“If you’d known her ladyship as long as I have, 
Mr. Cranage,” he answered, “you’d know that you 
never can argue anything from anything she does. 
I’ve known her set off to America at ten minutes’ 
notice, and to Paris at five, I attach no importance 
to her going from here without luggage—there are 
always trunks already packed for any journey at 
the house in Park Lane, and she’s nothing to do but 
call for ’em. You never know what she’s going to do 
—but in this case I do think she’s off for a while, or 
she wouldn’t have taken Mam’selle Felicia with her. 
Luggage?—Lor’ bless you, Mr. Cranage!—I’ve 
known her set off to Italy in the one gown she stood 
up in, and rig herself out with whatever she and the 
maid wanted as they went along!—a woman with her 
unlimited command of money can do anything!” 


192 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“And—in such instances—she leaves you to look 
after everything, with no special orders?” I asked. 

“Precisely, sir! There never are any special 
orders,” he replied. “This house, Mr. Cranage, and 
the house in Park Lane, too, are both kept up and 
staffed so that her ladyship can walk into either of 
’em at any hour of day or night and find everything 
going on as if she never left ’em! Oh, I know what 
to do even if she never came back for six months!” 

“What?” I asked, anxious to apply his method 
to myself. 

“Go on just as usual,” he answered coolly. “Al¬ 
ways be ready for her to walk in—which she will 
do, sooner or later, without any warning, and just 
as if she’d never gone out. And if I were you, Mr. 
Cranage, I should do the same. It’s what she likes 
—which is the main thing.” 

“Well,” said I. “I suppose so—but just now I 
must get rid of these men. They won’t be pleased. 
Burton!” 

“I daresay!” he asserted, with a knowing look. 
“But—I don’t think that would bother her lady¬ 
ship.” 

I went off—slowly and thoughtfully—to the little 
parlour wherein the two detectives were awaiting 
me. I saw at once that Jifferdene was getting im¬ 
patient. So I went straight to the point. 

“I’m very sorry,” I said bluntly, “but Lady 
Renardsmere declines to see you. She has nothing 
whatever to say.” 


THE AMERICAN TOURIST 


193 


I don’t know whether it was that Jifferdene felt 
that he represented the Majesty of the Law, and 
that this curt announcement outraged it, but he 
turned very red and got on to his feet. 

“Declines?” he said questioningly. “Nothing to 
say? Did—did you tell her who we were, Mr. 
Cranage, and where from?” 

“Both!” I replied. “She knows all that, well 
enough. That goes nowhere—with her!” 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, and exchanged a look with 
his companion. Then he turned again to me. 
“Come, Mr. Cranage!” he said, “this is all very 
well! We’ve got to see her.” 

“That’s impossible,” I answered, smiling at him. 
“Lady Renardsmere left here an hour ago.” 

His mouth opened and he stared at me incredu¬ 
lously. 

“Left? An hour ago?” he exclaimed at last. 
“Did you know?” 

“Knew nothing about it, Jifferdene, until just 
now,” I answered. “Then, the butler told me. She 
left a message. There was no need for you to wait 
longer—she had nothing whatever to say.” 

Jifferdene turned to a corner and picked up 
his hat and umbrella. It was evident that he was 
very angry: too angry to speak just then. But 
Beacher spoke. He laughed, too—as if he were 
amused. 

“Done us!” he said. 

“And done herself no good!” growled Jifferdene. 


194 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“A very foolish thing on her part, Mr. Cranage, to 
run away like that.” 

“I don’t know that it was running away,” I re¬ 
marked. “Lady Renardsmere is not the woman to 
run away from anything. I suppose it’s just that 
she’s not inclined to talk.” 

“She’ll have to talk if she’s put in a witness-box 
under a subpoena!” muttered Jifferdene. “She 
knows more than you think! Well, we’ll be getting 
back to that station, Beacher,—wasted a whole day! 
Where’s she gone?” he demanded, suddenly turning 
on me as he was leaving the room. “She’s a big 
palace in Park Lane—I know it! Has she gone 
there?” 

“No more idea than you have,” I replied. “Nor 
has anybody in this house, Jifferdene. Lady 
Renardsmere never tells anybody anything about 
her movements.” 

“We shall go to Park Lane to-night,” he said 
firmly. “If she isn’t there, then I shall know very 
well that she’s hooked it!—to keep out of the way.” 

“I hope you enjoyed your lunch, anyway?” I 
said, as I showed them out. 

“Takes all the nice taste of it away, this has, 
Mr. Cranage,” he replied, sullenly. “I think her 
ladyship’s treated us badly! A few questions . . . 
However . . .” 

He marched off, followed by Beacher, who seemed 
inclined to take things much more easily and philo¬ 
sophically, and I returned to my own room, and 


THE AMERICAN TOURIST 


195 


wondered what I should do with myself in the event 
of Lady Renardsmere remaining away for some 
time—as I suspected she would. Upon reflection, I 
decided to do just what Burton said he always did 
—go on as usual. There was always plenty of cor¬ 
respondence which I myself attended to without ever 
showing it to Lady Renardsmere; there were other 
duties, too, within my province which didn’t re¬ 
quire her supervision. And . . . there was Peggie, 
across the valley: I was beginning to adore Peggie, 
without exactly falling in love with her. 

The consideration of these matters suddenly re¬ 
minded me that the visit of the detectives had inter¬ 
rupted my day’s work—I had still several letters to 
write. So, the afternoon being now at its middle, I 
set to work on them, and I had got about half 
through my task when a footman entered, bringing 
a card. 

“Gentleman in the hall, sir, wanting to see the 
house,” he said as he laid the card before me, “I 
told him it wasn’t one of the days, but he said that 
he’s only on his way through the neighbourhood, 
touring, and won’t ever be this way again, so per¬ 
haps you’d kindly make an exception in his case?” 

Renardsmere House was a show-place—and no 
wonder, for it was a veritable treasury of works of 
art, ancient and modern: the late Sir William 
Renardsmere had been a famous collector in his 
time, and while there was much of his gatherings 
in the big mansion in Park Lane, the greater and 


196 


RIPPLING RUBY 


more important part was housed here on the Downs. 
And on three days a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, 
Fridays, Lady Renardsmere admitted the public to 
see these things, between the hours of three and six 
in the afternoon^r-on payment of a shilling a head, 
which shilling, with its fellows, went to a deserving 
charity. But this was neither Friday, Wednesday 
nor Monday. 

However, in view of what the footman had said, I 
glanced at the card which lay before me. It was 
a beautiful card, and beautifully engraved, and 
wholly and entirely un-English. 


Elmer C. Peyton. 

85 23rd Street, 

Milwaukee, Wis. 


Having a sneaking affection for Americans, and 
a desire to improve my acquaintance with them, I 
went out into the hall. There, swinging a Panama 
hat in his hand, and looking about him with an air 
of frank, undisguised curiosity, stood a young fel¬ 
low of about my own age. He was what they call a 
hefty chap—well above medium height, with the 
torso of a prize-fighter, and a general appearance 
of mighty muscular strength. He suggested fresh 
air and sunlight, too; his face was bronzed almost 




THE AMERICAN TOURIST 


197 


to copper colour, his eyes were clear as pools of 
fresh water; candid, too, they were, and looked 
straight at you.' The sort of ingenuous youth who 
wants to make friends at once, he shoved out a big 
right hand as I walked up to him, and as the sleeve 
of his tweed jacket was unusually short, and he wore 
no cuffs to his flannel shirt, I noticed that on his 
wrist, tattooed in more colours than one, there was 
a design which, later on, I saw to be some sort of 
a dragon. 

He began to make some apology, but I cut him 
short. 

“This is not one of the specified days, Mr. Pey¬ 
ton,” I said, “but I think we can make an exception 
in your case. You are just passing this way?” 

“I’m wheeling between Winchester and Chi¬ 
chester,” he answered, speaking without the least 
trace of what English folk fondly believe to be dis¬ 
tinctive American accent, “and I stopped to get 
some lunch at the inn in the village below. The land¬ 
lord told me of the pictures and things that are to be 
seen here, and he said that though it was not one of 
the days set down in the guidebook, he felt sure 

“Just so!” said I. “As you have come such a 
long way—though not, of course, with Renardsmere 
House solely in your eye-” 

“I never heard of it till an hour ago,” he broke 
in, with evident simplicity. “I’m just touring in 
England—came down from Liverpool through Ches- 



198 


RIPPLING RUBY 


ter, Shrewsbury, Warwick, Stratford, Oxford, 
Reading, Winchester, turning aside here and there 
—I like to get in all that I can. Architecture, pic¬ 
tures, anything like that-” 

“Artistic tastes, eh?” I said. “Very well—I’ll 
show you round.” 

He thanked me very politely—all through, he was 
a very polite, well-mannered person—and observed, 
as I led him up the great staircase to the various 
galleries and state rooms that all this sort of thing 
was absolutely new to him, and that I had no idea 
how he enjoyed it. 

“But I think you have a few millionaires—who 
are also big collectors—in your own country, 
haven’t you?” I said, with a sly laugh. “Some of 
them are pretty keen about removing some of our 
most cherished possessions across the Atlantic, 
too!” 

“Cherished?” he retorted, with an uplifted eye¬ 
brow. “You can’t call them cherished, I think, if 
you let them go! If you cherish them so much, why 
don’t you outbid the fellows who come across to 
buy them?” 

“Ask me another!” I answered. “You see, the 
average Briton thinks more of salmon at seven shill¬ 
ings a pound than he does of a book of sonnets at 
half the price, and he’d rather lay out thirty thou¬ 
sand pounds on drains and sewage than on keeping 
a Velasquez or a Rembrandt in the country. How¬ 
ever, I think all we’ve got here isn’t likely to be 



THE AMERICAN TOURIST 


199 


carried off as long as Lady Renardsmere lives.” 

“Very rich woman, I suppose?” he enquired. 

As everybody knew that Lady Renardsmere was 
unusually wealthy I did not consider myself to be 
breaking any confidence in admitting that she was. 
But I added that the things which we were now be¬ 
ginning to inspect had been brought together by 
her late husband, Sir William Renardsmere. 

“Lady Renardsmere,” I remarked, “was in her 
time a very well-known, indeed, a famous actress. 
She was known in your country, too—I believe she’d 
quite a triumph there.” 

“That’s interesting!” he exclaimed. “What was 
her stage name?” 

I told him, and he nodded as though to assert 
that he knew the name well enough. 

“That’s a long way back, though,” he remarked. 
“That would be in the ’eighties. And she’s alive, 
and this is her house? Well, now, that’s something 
to tell! Is there any chance of seeing her?” 

“I’m afraid not,” I said, laughing at his eager¬ 
ness. “Lady Renardsmere isn’t at home.” 

“Will she be long away?” he asked. “I’d hang 
round this village a day or two, to say I’d seen her!” 

“I shouldn’t advise you to,” said I. “She may 
be away some time. But I can show you a portrait 
of her, painted by Millais, when she was at the 
height of her fame and her beauty: we’ll come to it 
presently.” 

He appeared to be greatly enraptured by the 


200 


RIPPLING RUBY 


portrait—so much so that I hastened to tell him 
that it was forty years since it was painted and that 
Lady Renardsmere had changed so greatly in that 
time that there were few traces left of her former 
beauty. 

“And since she came into possession of all this,” 
he asked, waving the tattooed hand round the gal¬ 
lery in which we stood, “these priceless pictures, 
these cabinets of rarities, and all the rest of it, does 
she add to it—is she too, a collector?” 

I was so sure of my visitor’s bona fide, so com¬ 
pletely seduced by his appearance of youthful in¬ 
nocence and his ingenuous air that I answered 
without thinking. 

“Lady Renardsmere collects precious stones,” I 
said. “I believe she’s one of the most wonderful 
collections in the world.” 

“Are these shown?” he asked, with simplicity. 

“No, no!” I answered. “That wouldn’t do ! She 
keeps them under lock and key. of course. Other¬ 
wise-” 

“Just so!” he said. “There’s a man with whose 
son I was at College—Cyrus P. Warrill, a rich man 
of Chicago—he goes in for that sort of thing. He 
has a diamond necklace that belonged to Catherine 
the Great, and some pearl ornament that was once 
the property of one of the French Queens—I don’t 
know which. I suppose that’s the sort of thing your 
Lady Renardsmere likes to acquire?—things with 
historical interest attaching to them?” 



THE AMERICAN TOURIST 


201 


“Can’t say,” I replied. “I’ve never seen any of 
Lady Renardsmere’s possessions of that sort.” 

“Well, there’s a lot to look at here,” he re¬ 
marked. “And whatever you may say about things 
being carried over to our country, it strikes me since 
I came to yours that there are accumulations in 
these old English mansions and castles and halls 
that you’ll not find anywhere in the world! You’ve 
had a long start!” 

In this sort of light conversation, I passed a 
couple of hours with him, and then, wishing to be 
hospitable to the stranger within our gates, gave 
him some tea before he went. Finally I saw him off on 
his bicycle—his one regret being that he hadn’t been 
able to see Lady Renardsmere so that he might have 
told her that he had heard his mother speak of her 
acting. We parted very good friends, and he waved 
the tattooed wrist at me as he sped down the drive. 

Walker came back that night with the car—late. 
He came to see me—with a message. But it was 
not at all the sort of message I had expected. It 
was merely to say that while Lady Renardsmere was 
away I was to have Walker’s services and any of 
the cars in the garage whenever I wanted them. 
Nothing more. I asked Walker a question or two 
—he had taken Lady Renardsmere and her maid, 
Felicia, to the house in Park Lane and left them 
there: that was all he knew. I wondered then if 
Jifferdene and Beacher had descended on Lady 
Renardsmere that night after getting back to Lon- 


202 


RIPPLING RUBY 


don? But first thing next morning I knew that she 
had not stopped in London: she had evidently gone 
to Park Lane to get whatever she needed and had 
then travelled onward. For just as I sat down to 
breakfast I got a wire from her which had been 
handed in at Dover the night before. It was of no 
importance: it merely desired me to deal with all 
correspondence during her absence—but it showed 
me, being from Dover, that Lady Renardsmere was 
on her way to the Continent. 

I had to go down to the village that morning, 
and there, near his inn, I met Holroyd, the land¬ 
lord, and stopped to speak to him. 

“That was a very pleasant young fellow you sent 
up yesterday afternoon, Holroyd,” I said. “It 
wasn’t one of our show days, you know, but I took 
him round.” 

Holroyd stared at me. 

“That I sent up, Mr. Cranage?” he exclaimed. 
“Never sent anybody up!” 

“A young American—a cyclist?” I said. “Don’t 
you remember? He had lunch at your place.” 

“Nobody had lunch at my place yesterday!” he 
declared, still staring. “American? No Americans 
here!—I know Americans when I see ’em—been 
there, three times. No cyclists here yesterday, 
either. Somebody’s been having you, Mr. Cranage. 
I never sent up anybody to Renardsmere House!” 

I went off at that, silent and wondering. What 
had my visitor wanted?—been after? 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 

But before I had gone many yards, Holroyd 
called me back. He came to meet me, eyeing me 
with a shrewd glance that seemed to mean a good 
deal. 

“That appears to have knocked you all of a heap, 
Mr. Cranage,” he said, smiling. “Taken aback, 
what ?” 

“Well—” I said. “Pm a bit puzzled, Holroyd. 
Certainly a young man came up to the house yester¬ 
day afternoon, who said that he was an American 
tourist on his way from Winchester to Chichester, 
that he’d been lunching at the village inn, and that 
hearing of the art treasures of Renardsmere House 
he’d come to see them, at the landlord’s suggestion. 
And there’s no other inn than yours in the village.” 

“No—nor for four or five miles on either or any 
side of it,” he sneered. “But no American tourist 
nor anybody answering your description came here 
yesterday: I remember every man Jack that came 
in, and there was nobody of that sort. You’ve been 
had, Mr. Cranage!—that’s been some fellow that 
wanted to get into Renardsmere House for purposes 
of his own.” 


203 


204 


RIPPLING RUBY 


I, too, was beginning to think that—I was be¬ 
ginning to remember also that I had been a bit un¬ 
guarded in talking to the stranger about Lady 
Renardsmere’s love of precious stones. But Hol- 
royd was speaking again. 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Cranage,” he said. 
“There’s been some strange folk—men—about here 
lately. I’ve had one or two strangers in here that 
I didn’t know, and couldn’t account for. We don’t 
get commercial travellers here in Renardsmere— 
nothing for ’em to come for. A brewers’ traveller, 
of course—now and then—but we know him. But 
there have been men—and I’ll tell you what I think. 
They’re after news—of any sort—about that filly 
of Lady Renardsmere’s—Rippling Ruby. That’s 
the game, sir!” 

“There are men up there—private detectives— 
who are keeping strict watch over Miss Manson’s 
training place,” I said. 

“Aye, but I know them!” he answered, shaking his 
head. “Two of ’em—Robindale and Williamson. 
They come down here, now and then—never to¬ 
gether, of course, because when one’s off t’other’s on. 
But I don’t mean them. I’ve once or twice had 
strangers in—and in this out-of-the-way spot, we 
don’t see many strangers. There was a man came 
in the other night—very late. What’s a stranger 
doing round here, miles from any town, miles from 
the nearest station, at just before ten o’clock. And 
—you can’t ask.” 


THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 


205 


“They may have been what you say,” I said. “I 
suppose there are people who want to get all the 
information they can about a Derby candidate?” 

“I should say there are!” he answered, with an 
ironic laugh at my evident ignorance. “Aye, and 
’ud sacrifice their own mothers to get it! And there 
are those too, who’d move heaven and earth, and hell 
an’ all, to get at something else—if they could!” 

“What?” I asked. 

“Why, the filly herself,” he said, with another 
laugh. “There’s some queer things done in con¬ 
nection with the Turf, Mr. Cranage! Lady Renards- 
mere’s doing the right thing in having Rippling 
Ruby carefully watched—if she were mine, I’d take 
good care that human eyes were never off her till 
she faces the starting-gate! There’ll be plenty on 
her then, to be sure!—but she’ll be safe.” 

Presently I left him and went up the hillside to 
Peggie Manson’s. I met Peggie in the grounds of 
her home: one glance at her showed me that she 
was in a by-no-means-good temper. And as soon 
as she caught sight of me, she snapped out a ques¬ 
tion. 

“Have you had a telegram from Lady Renards- 
mere this morning?” she demanded. 

“I have!” said I. “I suppose you have, too?” 

“Why do you suppose it?” she retorted. 

“Because I can see you’re not in a very angelic 
mood,” I replied. “What’s the matter?” 

She stared at me for a moment, then she slashed 


206 


RIPPLING RUBY 


off the head of an unoffending dandelion with the 
hunting-crop which was rarely out of her hand. 

“I do wish Lady Renardsmere wouldn’t do things 
without consulting me,” she exclaimed angrily. 
“Really, I might be a servant of hers! Besides, she 
never thinks of the bother she causes by her high¬ 
handed way of doing things!” 

“I’m still waiting to know what she’s done,” I 
said. 

“Done? Planted four more men on me!” she 
complained. “I got a wire from her first thing this 
morning, saying that four more of these private 
detectives would arrive to-day, and were to work 
under the two that are already here, and then giv¬ 
ing more elaborate instructions about Rippling 
Ruby’s safety. Ridiculous!—as if she wasn’t as 
safe as safe can be!—trust me and Bradgett for 
that!” 

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” I replied. “There are 
some queer things going on: I’ve just had an ad¬ 
venture myself—” and I went on to tell her about 
my visitor of the previous afternoon and of Hol- 
royd’s recent remarks. “What do you make of 
that?” I concluded. 

“Nothing to do with Rippling Ruby!” she said, 
with decision. “But—I should say it’s a good deal 
to do with the other affair. Probably that was 
one of the gang.” 

“You think so?” I said. “What!—to walk right 
in there?” 


THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 


207 


“Why not?” she replied. “He bluffed you, easily 
enough. Of course I’m right!—he came with the 
idea of seeing Lady Renardsmere and looking 
round her home.” 

“Why?” I asked, still wondering. 

“Jim Cranage!” she exclaimed. “You’re— 
dense! I shall have to sharpen you up. Why? 
Good heavens, child! Can’t you see why?” 

“Not yet!” I retorted. 

“Why—because they’ve traced that Something to 
Lady Renardsmere!” she answered, with an expres¬ 
sive flash of her grey eyes. “I should think any¬ 
body possessed of one grain of perception can see 
that! They didn’t get any satisfaction out of 
murdering Holliment, and probably no more out of 
murdering Quartervayne, but I think that when 
they murdered Neamore they found evidence of his 
transactions with Lady Renardsmere. And now— 
they’re after her.” 

“Well—she’s off, anyway,” I said, after a mo¬ 
ment’s reflections. “Where was your wire from?” 

“Dover,” she answered. “Handed in there late 
last night.” 

“So was mine,” I said. “But there was nothing 
in mine, except to tell me to deal with the ordinary 
correspondence. Dover! Now—do you know what 
I think?” 

“Not the ghost of an idea, my boy!” replied 
Peggie. 

“I think Lady Renardsmere has hopped it to the 


208 


RIPPLING RUBY 


Continent in search of that deep and crafty old 
gentleman, Mr. Cheng,” I said, trying to look very 
clever. 

“Bless you!” exclaimed Peggie, satirically, “aren’t 
you getting smart! But I thought that, before you. 
So did Aunt Millie Hepple. There!” 

I suppose I looked properly crestfallen—so much 
so that, her mood changing to one of teasingness, she 
lifted her hunting-crop and began to poke me in the 
ribs with it. 

“Cheer up!” she said. “Perhaps some day you’ll 
think of something that nobody else has ever thought 
of! But seriously, you know-” 

“Why don’t you call me by my name, Peggie?” 
I interrupted, emboldened by the hunting crop. 
“Come, now?” 

“Well, Jim, then!” she answered, with a half- 
provoking, half-shy laugh. “Seriously, Jim, any¬ 
body who knows Lady Renardsmere as thoroughly 
as Aunt Millie Hepple and I know her, would never 
have any doubt as to what she’d do in a situation 
of this sort. Without doubt, she bought something 
from Neamore. She’s discovered that what she 
bought wasn’t Neamore’s to sell; that it was stolen 
property. But stolen property or not, it was some¬ 
thing she wanted, or has taken a violent fancy to, 
and meant to stick to, by hook or by crook. Now 
Lady Renardsmere, being a millionaire, or, I be¬ 
lieve, a multi-millionaire, what do you suppose she 
would do? Why—go straight off to the person to 



THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 


209 


whom this Something really does belong and strike 
a bargain with him! That’s the reason of her sud¬ 
den flight. She’s gone after Mr. Cheng.” 

“Of course, she knew all about Cheng,” I said 
musingly. 

“Of course she knew!—you told her, before Aunt 
Millie,” asserted Peggie. “She’ll track Mr. Cheng, 
whether he’s in Antwerp or Amsterdam, Brussels or 
Paris, and she’ll get round him to sell her his rights 
in this mysterious thing she’s already in possession 
of. And then she’ll come home, triumphant.” 

“And perhaps get murdered on the way,” I sug¬ 
gested. 

“As regards that, Jim, her best plan would be 
to let the whole transaction be made public,” she 
said. “If this gang knew that she’d acquired a legal 
right to the thing, they’d perhaps let their pursuit 
of it drop-” 

“What!—after murdering three men in the hope 
of regaining possession of it?” I exclaimed. “I 
scarcely see that!” 

“I don’t know,” she retorted. “I do. They knew 
that neither Holliment nor Quartervayne, nor Nea- 
more had any right to it, and so they went for 
each. But a legal right-” 

“Legal quibbles are beyond me, Peggie,” I inter¬ 
rupted. “What I’m wondering about is—what’s the 
composition of this gang? The Chinaman whom we 
know as Chuh Sin must be one—leader and inspirer, 
no doubt. Who are the others? If this man who 




210 


RIPPLING RUBY 


called at Renardsmere House yesterday is another, 
I can easily identify him if need ever arises!” 

“How?” she asked. 

“He’s got a very fine specimen of the art of tattoo¬ 
ing on his wrist,” I replied. “He wore his sleeves 
very short, and I’d a fine view of it. Clever, well- 
spoken, smart sort of chap, too—I’m sorry to think 
of him as being one of that lot.” 

“No sentiment, Jim, just now,” she said, warn- 
ingly. “Vermin are beautiful, sometimes, as crea¬ 
tures, but they want killing! That lot, as you call 
it-” 

Just then the newspapers arrived, and we each 
seized on one and turned to the latest news of the 
Neamore affair. There was nothing new. The 
police authorities, according to what we read, were 
in a state of immense activity, but all their move¬ 
ments and doings were shrouded in impenetrable 
protections—suffice it to say that no stone was be¬ 
ing left unturned, and that remarkable develop¬ 
ments might be expected before very long. 

I left Peggie to deal with the sudden demands 
made on her resources by the arrival of Rippling 
Ruby’s new bodyguard, and went homeward to do 
my own work. Passing the Renardsmere Arms on 
my way, I was suddenly hailed by Holroyd, who put 
his head through the open window of the bar-par¬ 
lour and called to me to stop. I went back to him. 

“I find I made a mistake this morning, Mr. Cran¬ 
age,” he said with an apologetic laugh. “There was 



THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 


211 


a young fellow in here yesterday who might be an 
American—the one you mentioned. You see, me and 
my missus we were out for a couple of hours early 
yesterday afternoon, and my barman was in charge. 
I never knew till just now that such a chap as that 
you mentioned had been in. I knew nobody’d been 
for a regular, proper lunch—but a cyclist did come 
while we were out and had a bite of bread and cheese 
and a bottle of soda-water, if you call that lunch, 
and the barman told him about Renardsmere House 
and said he’d likely get in, though it wasn’t a show- 
day. That’ll be your man, Mr. Cranage. He no 
doubt took my barman for me—thought he was the 
landlord.” 

I was glad to hear it. Somehow or other, I had 
taken a fancy to my visitor, and had felt almost a 
personal regret at being forced to believe that he 
was a member of a murder gang. And though I 
never expected to see Mr. Elmer C. Peyton again, I 
went home greatly relieved. 

That afternoon, Spiller, the Portsmouth detec¬ 
tive, called to see me. He wanted some further 
information about the attack on Holliment’s ware¬ 
house. When I had told him all I could, he began 
to talk about recent events. He had been up to 
town the day before, in connection with Quarter- 
vayne’s murder. And he gave me some good news— 
good for me, at any rate. There would be no need 
whatever for my attendance at the inquest on 
Quartervayne—Quartervayne, it appeared, had re- 


212 


RIPPLING RUBY 


lations both in London and Portsmouth who could 
identify him: as for my evidence regarding him and 
Holliment, it could be given at the adjourned inquest 
on Holliment. 

“Queer business this, altogether, Mr. Cranage,” 
he suggested presently. “As queer a business as 
ever I’ve been mixed up with. Of course, to a certain 
point it’s plain enough. That Chinaman, Chuh Sin, 
stole something from Mr. Cheng in Paris—I’ve seen 
Jifferdene a time or two, and he’s told me all about 
Mr. Cheng—and this Holliment, with Quartervayne 
as accessory, stole it from Chuh Sin, and vamoosed, 
as they say, to London with it. That’s clear! But 
—after that, Mr. Cranage? after that?” 

I saw that he had some notion of his own, and 
asked him what it was. 

“Well!” he said. “Those chaps at headquarters 
—Jifferdene, and the rest of ’em—they’ve got it all 
cut and dried, as they always have, that this Chuh 
Sin has got English accomplices, a gang, and that 
it’s they who have done in Holliment, and Quarter¬ 
vayne, and Neamore, trying to recover the stolen 
article—which, Mr. Cranage, must be of immense 
value, judging by the fuss that’s been made about it! 
—Lord save us! you might think it was the Koh-i- 
noor, or the Cullinan Diamond! Yes—that’s the 
official view. But—I’m not so sure.” 

“What’s your idea, Spiller?” I enquired. “You’ve 
got one.” 

He shook his head—but not in dissent. 


THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 


213 


u I’ye no great opinion of these Chinks!” he re¬ 
plied. “Rich or poor, high or low, I reckon they’re 
a crafty lot. There was a chap in our force, once, 
who used to recite poetry—he come to no good in 
the end, by the bye—and he was very fond of a piece 
about a heathen Chinee. I agreed with it!—from 
what I’ve seen of ’em. Their ways, Mr. Cranage, 
are dark—as the feller that wrote that piece of 
poetry had the gumption to observe. But it strikes 
me that if there’s anybody that’s at the bottom of 
all this it’s that Mr. Cheng!” 

“I’m not sure that I don’t agree with you, 
Spiller,” I said. 

“Mr. Cheng,” he repeated, nodding his head. 
“That’s the old Sphinx whose headpiece they want 
to get inside of! But I understand that a Chinaman 
is of all men in the world the very hardest to extract 
information from. Being a young gentleman of 
education, Mr. Cranage, you’ll know more about 
it than I do.” 

“Pretty stiff nuts to crack, I believe,” I answered. 

“Well!” he remarked. “There’s nuts and nuts. 
But I ain’t never yet heard of a nut that you can’t 
crack! All you want, Mr. Cranage, if the ordinary 
nut-cracker ain’t strong enough, is a good hammer 
—or a flat-iron.” 

“And then, Spiller, you’d probably crack the 
kernel to smithereens!” I said. “We want to get 
this kernel out—whole!” 

He observed that time would show, and with this 


214 


RIPPLING RUBY 


wise remark went away, adding, over his shoulder, 
when he had gone a few yards, that it might be next 
year, or next month, or next day, but something 
was sure to come out—dead certain! 

Three days passed then, and nothing had come 
out. But early in the evening of the fourth—the 
fifth since the sudden disappearance of Lady 
Renardsmere—and just as I was sitting down to my 
solitary dinner, in walked Miss Peggie Manson, not 
in her riding-coat and breeches, but in a very 
swagger tailor-made costume. I was so astonished 
that I could only gaze at her—whereupon she flung 
a telegram on the table before me. 

“The latest!” she remarked laconically. 

I spread the flimsy sheet of paper before me and 
read, noting that the message had been handed in at 
Victoria at 5.30 that afternoon- 

“I want you and Cranage to meet me at George 
Hotel Winchester at 9.30 this evening Walker is 
to take you both over in Rolls-Royce If however 
I don’t turn up there by 10 o’clock return home 
and wait wire early to-morrow 

“Helena Renardsmere” 

“I suppose we’ve got to go?” I said, glancing at 
Peggie, who made a grimace and shrugged her 
shoulders by way of wordless reply. “All right— 
I’ll give orders to Walker. But what’s it all about 




THE ADMIRAL’S FOLLY 


215 


“Pooh!” exclaimed Peggie. “What’s the good of 
that? One of her sudden ideas.” 

We went off a little before eight o’clock. Win¬ 
chester was only twenty-five miles away, and we 
arrived in its High Street well ahead of our time. 
We waited at the George until a quarter past ten. 
No Lady Renardsmere arrived. And so, having ful¬ 
filled her instructions, we set off home again. 
Neither of us had any suspicion that the telegram 
was a bogus one: we merely thought that its sender 
either had been prevented from getting down, or had 
changed her mind. 

It was a beautiful moonlight night, and Peggie 
and I, lost in the shadows of the big car, enjoyed 
our ride homeward. We forgot all else and be¬ 
came very friendly—the time passed so quickly 
that I was suddenly amazed to see the Admiral’s 
Folly, a ruinous tower-like structure that stood on 
a wooded hill overlooking a strangely lonely bit 
of country about seven miles from Renardsmere. 
It was a landmark—everybody knew it for miles 
around. 

“Good heavens!” said I. “We’re nearly home! 
There’s the Admiral’s Folly up above us. I wish 

_5? 

I was going to say that I wished we’d another 
hundred miles to go, when the car stopped with a 
sudden pressure of its powerful brakes that jerked 
us both forward. I pulled myself together and 
thrust my head out of the window. 



216 


RIPPLING RUBY 


And I felt myself turn sick at what I saw. There 
were three men in the narrow lane, with black masks 
across their faces, and in the hand of each man was 
a levelled revolver* 


CHAPTER XVII 


HANDS UP! 

In that tense moment I felt Peggie’s hand grip 
my arm and her breath grow warm on my cheek as 
she let out a quick whispered exclamation. 

“Jim!” she said. “Held up!” 

“Yes!” I answered quickly. “Trapped! Wait!” 

The three men came closer, their revolvers still 
raised. Two covered Walker; one came up to the 
side from which we were gazing at them. His right 
hand kept his revolver unpleasantly levelled in a 
straight line with the bridge of my nose: his left 
threw open the door of the car. 

“Come out, you!” he said, in a firm determined 
voice which I knew to be that of a man of educa¬ 
tion. “Put your hands up as you step out! Now,” 
he continued, as I promptly obeyed his orders, “are 
you armed?” 

I made a big effort to keep cool, and I succeeded 
so far as to affect a laugh—a poor one, no doubt. 

“Armed?” I answered. “No! Why should I be 
armed?” 

But he kept me covered, and a second later I found 
Walker—who, I fear, though a very clever chauf- 
217 


218 


RIPPLING RUBY 


feur, and full of nerve in that respect, was a chicken- 
hearted person when confronted 'with firearms— 
shivering at my side, his hands raised high above 
his cap. And while two of the men watched our 
every movement, or, rather, watched for any indica¬ 
tion of a movement, the third went over us so 
thoroughly that I should say he could have made 
an inventory of all that we carried in our pockets. 
And at a muttered word from him, the other two 
dropped their weapons, and the man who had 
searched us turned to the car, motioning me to re¬ 
enter. At the same time the others signed to Walker 
to re-start the car and get back to his driving-seat. 
I heard a sharp military-like order to him. 

“Turn up that lane on your left, towards the 
ruined tower! Go slowly—stop the instant you are 
told to stop! Make the slighest attempt to disobey, 
and you’ll be shot dead! Now put out those lights 
and get on!” 

The car moved off, slowly, and turned into the 
lane indicated. One man stood on the step at our 
door; the other two were in front with Walker. It 
was a rough, grass-surfaced lane; the car, 
splendidly-springed as it was, bumped and jolted. 
We went up and up towards the Admiral’s Folly; its 
half-ruined towers loomed higher and higher before 
us: clearly these kidnappers were taking us there or 
somewhere near there. And in the gloom of the 
car Peggie and I sought for and held each other’s 
hands tightly. 


HANDS UP! 


21 0 


“Jim!” she whispered. “Are they going to shoot 
ns ?” 

“Not they—nor hurt us!” I answered, with a 
confidence which was far more assumed than real. 
“I’ve already reckoned up what they want. News! 
—information. We’d better realise it first as last, 
Peggie—we’re in the hands of that infernal gang!” 

“The—the murderers?” she asked. 

“Aye!” I answered. “That lot—without doubt!” 

“They—they spoke like gentlemen,” she faltered. 

“Makes it all the worse,” I said. “When your 
gentleman turns devil, he’s a perfect devil! But— 
the car’s stopping.” 

We had come to a deep part of the narrow lane, 
there thickly overhung with trees, where there was a 
sort of side track leading to deep woods. Into this 
the car turned, stopped. The man at our door 
opened it. 

“You and the lady come out!” he commanded in 
the same peremptory but cultured voice. “And don’t 
let the lady be afraid—no harm will come to her. 
Nor to you and your man, either, if you’re 
amenable.” 

“Amenable to what, may I ask?” I enquired, as 
we stepped out. 

He gave me no answer. Instead he pointed to a 
certain spot where, from his gesture, we gathered 
that he wished us to stand, and, obedient to superior 
force, we stood there. Then he—who seemed to be 
the leader of the party—turned to Walker, who, 


220 


RIPPLING RUBY 


under orders from the other two, had dismounted. 
In a few short sharp sentences he gave him an order 
which the chauffeur (who was by this time, as I 
could well guess, in a fine state of alarm and ner¬ 
vousness) hastened to obey, and had the effect of 
making the car useless for the time being at any 
rate—I gathered from it that we were in for some 
sort of detention, and that our captors were taking 
no risks. And I reflected, while Walker, who began 
to weep, and sobbed audibly over his enforced task, 
obeyed orders, on the strangeness of our situation 
and on our helplessness. The Admiral’s Folly stood 
on the brow of a lonely hill, miles from anywhere; it 
was, itself, only approachable by one or two rough 
lanes such as that which we had traversed at our 
kidnappers’ commands, and it was extremely un¬ 
likely that anyone would come near it, for the im¬ 
mediate surroundings were wild, scrubby moorland 
tenanted only by a few scraggy sheep. The only 
link between ourselves and civilisation was the road 
on which we had been captured—on that certainly 
there was traffic; a good deal by day, a little by 
night. But ... we were now three quarters of a 
mile from it. 

Walker finished his unpleasant task—it must have 
wrung his heart to put his beloved mechanism out 
of gear at the command of these villains—and the 
leader motioned him to join Peggie and myself. 

“Now!” he commanded, in the best drill-sergeant 
manner. “Go forward, you there, up the lane to 


HANDS UP! 


221 


the ruins, above there. Don’t attempt to escape, 
any of you, to right or left. March!” 

We moved forward—Peggie in the middle, I on 
her right, Walker on her left. Our captors followed 
close on our heels. We kept silence (except that 
Walker still blubbered occasionally) ; so did they. 
And after a march of a hundred yards or so, we 
came to the Admiral’s Folly. I had been there 
once or twice—just to examine so curious a spot— 
and I knew the ins and outs of it. It was a strange 
example of a rich man’s whim. A high circular 
tower was surrounded at its base by four lesser 
towers, from each of which there was an entrance 
into the main one. These lesser towers were, mainly, 
completely ruinous, but the big structure was fairly 
intact, and in its lower storey was a room which the 
old sea-dog, its founder, had used as a banqueting- 
hall; there, according to local tradition, many a 
gay carousal had taken place. There was an odd 
feature in this place, still remaining—a stone table, 
and stone seats about it. And guessing that our 
kidnappers knew of it as well as I did, I marched 
my party straight in there, and taking off my 
overcoat made it into a cushion for Peggie to sit 
on. 

Our captors said nothing when Walker, at a 
signal from me, sat down, nor when I seated my¬ 
self. They sat down themselves, facing me. It was, 
as I have said, a moonlight night—a particularly 
brilliant night—and the old tower being roofless, 


222 


RIPPLING RUBY 


and there being several ruinous windows and 
apertures in its walls, we could all see each other 
with a fair amount of clearness. And my 
first concern was—as far as I could—to make a 
close examination of our kidnappers. It was im¬ 
possible, of course, to see anything of their faces, 
for each was closely masked with black in such a 
fashion as to leave nothing but a point of chin show¬ 
ing. But I could estimate their figures, and I 
studied them closely. One was a shortish, stocky 
man; I thought that he might be a Chinaman in 
European clothes. Another was somewhat taller, 
and lankier—a nondescript figure. But the third, 
the leader, was a big, hefty fellow with a strong 
frame and broad shoulders—a formidable chap. All 
three were dressed in dark lounge suits, and all 
three wore caps, well pulled down over the top edges 
of their masks. 

.During all the proceedings that followed, the only 
one of these three men who spoke to us was the 
leader, though the other two occasionally whispered 
to him. But from the start he was spokesman—and 
he lost no time in getting to work. And as I had 
guessed, the man he wanted was . . . me. 

44 Your name is James Cranage,” he began. 

44 That is my name,” I answered promptly. 

44 You’re the man who was in temporary employ¬ 
ment at Holliment’s, in Portsmouth, for a day?” he 
went on. 

44 I don’t mind admitting that,” said I. 


HANDS UP! 


223 


“You saw the attack on Holliment’s by a party 
of men late at night ?” 

“Yes—headed by a Chinaman.” 

“Never mind the Chinaman!—you give me plain 
answers. After that you became secretary to Lady 
Renardsmere, and you’re still in her employ?” 

“That, too, is correct.” 

“Do you remember a man named Neamore coming 
to see Lady Renardsmere, and her going with him, 
there and then, to London, and her returning, alone, 
that same night?” 

I began to think rather more deeply. Up to now 
I was giving nothing away: these things were com¬ 
mon news, already bandied about. And I saw no 
harm in replying to the last question. 

“Yes, I remember that,” I said. 

He bent forward, and his manner became more in¬ 
sistent; it was evident he was coming to a critical 
stage. 

“Now then! Did you, the next day, undertake 
any journey on Lady Renardsmere’s behalf, carry¬ 
ing any small article or parcel for her? Answer!” 

“No, I shall not!” I said. “No answer from me!” 

There was a dead silence. Then the leader spoke 
in almost a whisper. 

“We shall shoot you dead in that girl’s presence 
if you don’t!” he murmured. “And at once!” 

“In that case, you’ll certainly get nothing out of 
me!” I retorted. “If you can’t get anything out of 
me alive, you certainly can’t out of me dead!” 


224 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Answer!” he said. “We’ll give you one minute. 
At the end of that-” 

It was then that Walker’s nerves went to wrack 
and ruin. He had been whimpering all the time, but 
now he burst into a howl. 

“Oh, Mr. Cranage, sir, tell ’em!” he cried sud¬ 
denly wringing his hands. “Tell ’em, Mr. Cranage, 
for God’s sake, before we all get shot! It can’t mat¬ 
ter, Mr. Cranage!—tell ’em and be done with it! 
Mr. Cranage . . .” 

The leader laughed. And he turned from me to 
the chauffeur. 

“Ah, so you know, my friend!” he said. “Come, 
then, out with it! Did-” 

“Hold your tongue, Walker!” I broke in. “Be 
a man ! They daren’t-” 

Before the last syllable was well out of my mouth, 
all three men had drawn their revolvers, and the 
leader had got his in unpleasant proximity to my 
nose. 

“Hold your tongue,” he said, in a quiet voice 
which was much more awe-compelling than any 
vociferation. “Get up! You and that girl go over to 
the alcove across there, and stand till we call for you. 
Quick, now!—no nonsense if you value your life.” 

I knew then that it was absolutely useless to trifle 
with, to attempt to bluff, or to defy these fellows: 
they meant business. I touched Peggie’s arm; we 
rose and went over to the place pointed out, a sort 
of recess in the hall. The three men at the table, 





HANDS UP! 


225 


each toying suggestively with his revolver, gathered 
around the miserable chauffeur. 

“What can he tell?” whispered Peggie, as we stood 
side by side in the shadows. 

“Plenty !” said I. “He drove me!” 

“But—tell of anything important?” 

“Yes ! He knows !” 

“What ?—everything ?” 

“No—but sufficient. And—when these fellows 
have done with him, it’ll be useless for me to hold my 
tongue any longer. They’ve got us !” 

We stood silent for a time, watching. By this, 
Walker, with three revolvers in front of him, was 
talking as fast as terror could make him; we, of 
course, could not hear a word of what he said, but I 
knew what tale he was telling, and what its effect 
would be. And in a very few minutes, the three men 
slipped their revolvers back into their pockets and 
the leader turned and beckoned to us. 

“Come back here, you!” he commanded, in that 
come-to-heel fashion that made me itch to hit him 
fair and square. “Sit there again! Now, then,” he 
went on, as we obeyed his orders, “we’ve got a 
stage further. This man has told us of his driving 
Lady Renardsmere and Neamore up to London and 
of all her doings that day: that is, as regards her 
movements. Next day, at Lady Renardsmere’s 
orders, he drove you to London in the afternoon, 
to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, to the office of Penni- 
thwaite, Lady Renardsmere’s solicitor. Now then, 


226 


RIPPLING RUBY 


it’s useless for you to keep silence, and foolish to 
make a martyr of yourself, so you answer my ques¬ 
tions. Why did Lady Renardsmere send you to 
Pennithwaite? Smart, now!” 

It was useless to hold out any longer: there was 
murder in that resolute voice. And I replied, 
quickly- 

“To carry a letter and a small parcel!” 

“To Pennithwaite himself?” 

“To Pennithwaite himself.” 

“So you know what was in the small parcel?” 

“I do not! I have no idea whatever!” 

“Nor in the letter?” 

“Of course not—it was written by Lady Renards¬ 
mere herself, in her private room, and sealed.” 

“Was she anxious about its direct delivery into 
Pennithwaite’s hands ?” 

“Very!” 

“And you delivered both parcel and letter into his 
hands ?” 

“I did.” 

“What did he do with the parcel?” 

“I don’t know—except that after reading the 
letter he took the parcel into an inner room. Then 
he returned and gave me a receipt for letter and 
parcel.” 

“That’s absolutely all you know of that ?” 

“Absolutely everything!” 

“Lady Renardsmere never told you, at any time, 
anything about the contents of that parcel?” 



HANDS UP! 


227 


“Never!” 

He seemed to reflect for a moment: suddenly he 
asked another question. 

“We’ve referred to this as a parcel: what size 
was it?” 

“It depends on what you call a parcel—it was 
really a small packet, a very small packet which 
easily went into a waistcoat pocket. Sealed.” 

“And after Pennithwaite got it, you know nothing 
about it?” 

“Nothing whatever!” 

He nodded, remained silent a moment, then 
nudged his companions, and all three rising they re¬ 
tired a little way and began to converse in whis¬ 
pers. After a time they came back, and without 
sitting down the leader started another series of 
questions. 

“Do you know where Lady Renardsmere now is ?” 
he asked. 

“No more than you do!” I retorted. “Perhaps 
less!” 

“Be civil! Have you any idea where she is ?” 

“Yes, I’ve an idea, but I can’t say that it’s any 
sound foundation. On the Continent.” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Because the last communication I had from her 
was from Dover.” 

He suddenly turned on Peggie. 

“You’re Miss Manson, Lady Renardsmere’s 
trainer,” he said, in the assured tones of a man who 


228 


RIPPLING RUBY 


knows what he is talking about. “Where do you 
think she is?” 

“On the Continent,” answered Peggie, promptly. 

“Why?’ 

“For the same reason that Mr. Cranage just 
gave you. The last communication I had from Lady 
Renardsmere was from Dover.” 

Again he turned to me. 

“Have you any idea why Lady Renardsmere 
should go—suddenly—on the Continent—just 
now?” he demanded. 

For the life of me I couldn’t help giving him the 
answer that I did. I had been longing to hit him 
between the eyes all the time: perhaps I could hit 
him in another fashion. And out it came. 

“Yes!” I said. “It’s my opinion that she’s gone 
to meet a Chinaman, Mr. Cheng!” 

That did hit him! It hit all three. I saw them 
start—plainly. They walked aside again, and 
talked. Presently the leader called to us. 

“Come along! We’re done with you. Follow us 
down the lane to your car.” 

I heard Walker, who had never ceased to whimper 
like a puppy, mutter a sound expressive of devout 
thanksgiving. We all rose and followed our captors 
out of the ruins and down the lane. They walked in 
front, abreast, swinging their arms loosely, in close 
whispered consultation. The moon was brighter 
than ever, but the thick bushes on either side the 
lane were craters of blackness. 


HANDS UP! 


229 


And suddenly, before we realized it, and with such 
swiftness that it was over before the men in front 
knew what was happening, five strapping men, revolv¬ 
ers in hand, sprang out of those bushes with a stern 
shout from one of “Hands up!” Four, I saw at a 
glance, by their dark blue uniform, were police, but 
the fifth was a civilian. He was nearest me as he 
and the police closed round the unready despera¬ 
does, and as the silver moonlight fell on his out¬ 
stretched arm, I saw, with a mighty amazement and 
overwhelming sense of relief, a great tattooed 
mark on the steel-taut wrist. The American!— 
Peyton! 


CHAPTER XVIII 

HANDS OUT! 

I could have yelled—danced, too—for sheer jo}* 
as the scoundrels in front of us, completely taken 
unawares, threw their arms skyward, with a readi¬ 
ness which made me certain that they were well 
acquainted with the strict rules of their own game. 
The three pairs of hands went up with military pre¬ 
cision—and remained up! No wonder!—with five 
stalwart men at front and sides and five ugly-look- 
ing revolvers in close proximity to eyes and ears. 
And of the three, only the leader put his outraged 
feelings into words. They were short and venomous. 

“Damnation! Trapped!” 

There was a crystallization of everything that a 
baffled devil could spit out of his black throat in 
those two words—hatred, despair, hopelessness, im¬ 
potent raging. And the next sound that broke the 
stillness of the quiet night came as a veritable re¬ 
freshment. That was the voice of the biggest of the 
five big men, in whom I suddenly recognised a cer¬ 
tain stalwart police-sergeant, an ex-army man, sta¬ 
tioned at a place near Renardsmere. 

230 


HANDS OUT! 


231 


“Go through them, Burton! Move a finger or a 
toe, any one of you three, and . . .” 

One of the constables cased his revolver and went 
through the three captives in a fashion that was 
as thorough as it was speedy. Within a minute— 
literally a minute—he had whipped the weapons 
which had robbed Walker of half his wits out of the 
men’s side pockets and had thrust them into my 
hands; within another came the rattle of a second 
order from the police-sergeant. 

“Hands out! Quick, now!” 

We stood, fascinated, staring, as the prisoners 
mechanically dropped their arms and shoved out 
their hands. There were gleams of something bright 
in the moonlight: there were quick, sharp metallic 
clickings of steel . . . the police relaxed their tense 
attitudes and drew back a little. But they still 
handled their revolvers. 

“Off with those masks, Burton!” ordered the 
police-sergeant. “Let’s see their faces !” 

I drew still nearer, in spite of a protesting 
whimper from the still trembling Walker. I, too, 
wanted to see those faces. As I have already said, 
there was one man whom I thought might be a 
Chinaman. But as Burton deftly tore away the 
strips of cloth, I saw that there was no Chinaman 
there; all three were white men. And the leader 
was a handsome fellow, with good, well-bred fea¬ 
tures, and a look of braininess and power, but with 
the most sinister eyes I had ever seen. The sergeant 


232 


RIPPLING RUBY 


went close and looked at him, and the man looked 
back and suddenly opened his lips. 

“Damn you!” he said in a low, mocking voice. 
“You never saw me in your life before!” 

“I’ll see a good deal of you in my life to come, my 
lad!—for a while!” retorted the sergeant. He turned 
towards me. “Miss Manson and you all safe, Mr. 
Cranage?” 

“We’re quite safe, sergeant, thank you,” said I. 
“But it’s a wonder! Those fellows-” 

“Never mind them, now, Mr. Cranage,” he inter¬ 
rupted. “We’ve got ’em—thanks to Mr. Peyton 
here. Now then, that’s your car that’s down there, 
isn’t it?—we found it, as we came up. We’ve got 
another, bottom of the lane. These chaps have one 
somewhere about, but we’ll not trouble to ask them 
where it’s hidden, just now; the thing at present is 
to get ’em under lock and key. We’ll take ’em off 
right away, and do you follow in your car to Mal- 
lant—you’ll hear how we came to be here when you 
"get down there to the police-station. Now then, you 
three, march!—and remember here are five armed 
men round you, and that if you make the slightest at¬ 
tempt to escape you’ll be shot down. Get a move on! 
—straight to the bottom of this lane ! Smart, now !” 

In another second this grim procession was mov¬ 
ing; in another minute it was vanishing into the 
shadows, and we three, left there, stood staring after 
it. I believe Walker began to say his prayers, or to 
utter his thanksgivings; he was certainly muttering 



HANDS OUT! 


233 


something that sounded like devout words. But I 
roused him out of that. 

“Walker!” I said. “Can you start that car? Or 
is it-” 

He jumped like a cat as I laid my hand on his 
shoulder: I veritably believe he had forgotten the 
car. 

“The car, Mr. Cranage, the car, sir? Oh, yes, 
sir, I can start the car,” he quavered. “They only 
made me—oh, yes, sir, I can start her. But, oh 
Lord! Mr. Cranage, do you think they’ve really 
gone?—is there no fear, Mr. Cranage-” 

“Get that car to rights !” I said. “Come on now! 
—pull yourself together—we don’t want to keep 
Miss Manson standing here all the rest of the night. 
Get at it!” 

He suddenly recovered his senses and shot off to 
the car, and I turned to Peggie. We stood silently 
looking at each other for a good minute. 

“Is this real, Jim?” she said at last. 

I drew a very long, big breath. 

“Real enough!” I answered. “Phew!” 

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it! That’s just how I 
feel. Phew! But-” 

Then we stood silent again. 

“I wonder !” I muttered. “I wonder-” 

“I know what you’re thinking,” she broke in. 
“How did that American man, Peyton, track them?” 

“We shall hear,” I answered. “He’d no time to 
tell me, then. But didn’t you see him give me a nod 






23 4 , 


RIPPLING RUBY 


and a wink as they went off? Arid did you see how 
he watched those fellows—and that nasty-looking 
revolver of his—and the big tattoo mark on his 
wrist? And—I suspected him for a bit, after he’d 
been to Renardsmere! Mystery! But let’s get 
down to Mallant and hear all about it. Peggie!” 

“What?” she asked, as we moved away down the 
lane. 

“Do you feel queer?” I asked, with a laugh that 
came a bit shakily. 

“Not now,” she answered. “But—to-morrow 

_ » 

“Never mind!” I said. “To-morrow-” 

“Car ready, sir,” shouted Walker, in something 
—only something—like his usual voice. “Difficult 
spot to turn in, though, sir. If you and Miss Man- 
son’ll walk down to the road-” 

We walked down to the road. But just as we 
turned a sharp corner of the lane, a few yards from 
its mouth, Peggie suddenly clutched my arm with 
one hand and pointed forward with the other. 
There, in the middle of the road, stood a man, half- 
obscured in the shadow of a great elm which towered 
between him and the moon. We both paused; he 
turned, saw us, and called out cheerily- 

“Come right ahead, Mr. Cranage—it’s only I— 
Peyton!” 

We went right ahead: we shook hands with him, 
solemnly; although I was already head over heels 
in love with her, I wouldn’t have cared a damn if 






HANDS OUT! 


285 


Peggie had thrown her arms around his neck and 
kissed^ him. And then, after the manner of Anglo- 
Saxon folk, before either of us said a word, he and 
I pulled out our pipes, filled and lighted them with 
apparent unconcern, and fell to smoking. 

“You might introduce us, Jim!” said Peggie, 
suddenly. 

I introduced them, with more ceremony than was 
necessary, and with an apology for my lack of good 
manners. 

“At such a time as—as that,” I added, “manners 
are apt to go by the board.” 

Peyton nodded towards the gaunt ruins high 
above us. 

“Pretty hot time up there, I guess?” he ques¬ 
tioned. 

“Hotter than we cared for—for a while,” I 
answered. “It’s a wonder our chauffeur isn’t a 
raving lunatic! But—you seem, from what the 
sergeant said, to have been our saviour! How did 
it come about?” 

“I stopped behind, now, to tell you,” he said. 
“It struck me that as those three fellows were pretty 
tightly handcuffed—one of your policemen told me 
that these new handcuffs are no joke, once on!— 
and that they’d got a guard of four pretty de¬ 
termined and well-armed men, there was no need for 
me to dance attendance any longer, though I’ll cer¬ 
tainly go down with you to this Mallant the Sergeant 
spoke of. How did it come about?” he went on. 


236 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Well, it came about because your humble servant 
is a bit of an ornithologist, and had never in his 
life had the luck to hear a nightingale! That’s how 
it came about—just!” 

“Do tell us all about it!” exclaimed Peggie. 
“What had a nightingale to do with it?” 

“Just this!” he replied with a laugh. “After Mr. 
Cranage there had shown me over Renardsmere the 
other day I went wandering about country, a bit 
aimlessly. And in an inn that I struck early this 
evening, somewhere away down there, I got talking 
to a man who was, like myself, a bird-lover. He 
told me that away up here in this valley, just be¬ 
low that old ruin there, there were nightingales to 
hear, in plenty. So as it came dusk, I wheeled up 
here, had a look round, put my machine in a safe 
place, and hid myself in a grove of trees, meaning 
not only to hear but to see a nightingale and observe 
his little ways. Well, without going into over much 
detail, those three men came along, in a car. They 
stopped at my grove. They hid that car—I know 
where it is. And, all unsuspecting that I was within 
a few feet—literally—of them, they sat down on a 
bank just behind the hedge where I was hidden, and 
they talked. A good lot of what they said was in¬ 
comprehensible to me, but I made this out—that 
they were very anxious to get hold of Lady 
Renardsmere, and that as she’d vanished, they’d 
laid a fine lot to entrap her secretary that very 
night, and were going to waylay him just above as 


HANDS OUT! 


237 


he returned from a fool’s errand to Winchester on 
which they’d sent him.” 

“Ah!” said I. “So that was their work!” 

“Seems so,” answered Peyton. “Well, I heard 
enough to know that you and Miss Manson were in 
danger—they wanted to question her, too, about 
Lady Renardsmere. Fortunately, instead of sitting 
in one place all the time, they got up and began to 
stroll around a bit: fortunately, too, I’d left my 
wheel on the other side of the grove. So I stole 
quietly across—I’m an old hand at woodcraft—and 
I got that wheel down the side of a hedge, and into 
a road, and I made tracks for the nearest village. 
I’d the luck to hit on a policeman there that was a 
right smart man. We got on the telephone to the 
police-station at Mallant, a few miles away, and 
within half-an-hour that sergeant was along in a 
fast car, with the other men, and all well armed. 
And ... we just came up here. Say!—who do 
you suppose those fellows are? Because I’ve been 
reading the papers more than usual since I came 
down this way, and I’ve got an idea.” 

“Well—and what is your idea?” I asked. 

“My idea is that those three are mixed up with 
these London murders,” he answered. “There were 
cryptic references in their talk—I heard a name 
mentioned.” 

“What name?” 

“Holliment! That was the first man who was 
murdered.” 


238 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“I don’t think there’s the least doubt that these 
three fellows are members of the gang,” I said. “I’ve 
felt sure of it from the moment they stopped us.” 

“Just so!” he agreed. “I’m certain of it, too! 
But, as I tell you, I’ve lately read your newspapers 
closely, and followed up these cases, and, granting 
that these three are members of the gang, there’s 
now a big question strikes me. Does it strike you?” 

“I should want to know what it is before I could 
answer that,” I said. “What is the question?” 

He looked from one to the other of us, and in the 
moonlight his keen face took on a keener expres¬ 
sion. 

“Where’s the Chinaman?” he said. “The China¬ 
man who broke into Holliment’s store at Ports¬ 
mouth, and completely disappeared immediately 
after? For . . . the Chinaman’s at the bottom of 
all this! The Chinaman’s behind those fellows! 
They’re . . . instruments!” 

Walker had come up with the car. He was plainly 
impatient to be off, and I knew why. That neigh¬ 
bourhood had its terrors for him; never again would 
Walker come round about the Admiral’s Folly if he 
could help it! He was nervous still, and suspicious 
of Peyton, and he made so bold as to nudge my 
elbow. Peyton saw the action and turned on him. 

“Make yourself easy, my friend!” he said with a 
laugh. “There are no more bandits about, and if 
there were I’ve got a little instrument in my hip- 
pocket that would quieten them. Look here!—just 


HANDS OUT! 


239 


you take your car nice and softly down to the 
bottom of that dip. You’ll see a grove of trees there 
—my wheel’s just inside the gate. Put her aboard 
your car—and we’ll join you in a minute. Now,” 
he went on, as the chauffeur promptly obeyed orders, 
“that’s what I say, Miss Manson and Mr. Cranage 
—where’s the Chinaman? Those three fellows are 
his instruments—partners—factotums—but he’s 
the boss! Your police have got them—but he’s at 
large. And as long as he’s at large—eh?” 

“Just so!” I agreed as we slowly followed Walker 
down the hill. “The Chinaman is without doubt at 
the bottom of it. But—you seem to know more 
about it, in some ways, than I do. I—for example 
—I didn’t know that so much had come out to the 
public about the Chinaman?” 

He paused, looking at me in astonishment. 

“What?” he exclaimed. “You haven’t seen the 
London evening papers, then? No?—well, I bought 
some at seven o’clock at Mallant railway depot as 
I passed it. Your police headquarters in London— 
Scotland Yard—have resorted to publicity. There’s 
the whole story there—you’re in it—from start to 
finish. The Chinaman is a fellow named Chuh Sin, 
who was secretary to a swell compatriot, one Cheng, 
and he’s supposed to have stolen some extraordi¬ 
narily valuable object—jewel, maybe—from Cheng 
in Paris, and escaped to this country with it, and 
had it stolen from him, and now he and a gang that 
he’s got together are after the stolen thing and 


240 


RIPPLING RUBY 


stopping at nothing to get it back. Chuh Sin!—a 
Chinaman who’s lost the lobe of his left ear!” 

“Ah!” I said, remembering Mr. Cheng’s tardily- 
given information to Jifferdene and myself at the 
Langham Hotel. “So that’s in the papers, is 
it?” 

“That, and a lot more,” he replied. “I’ve two 
papers in my pocket. Evidently, your police see that 
the widest publicity is the only thing, and they’re 
enlisting the press in their service. Oh, there’s no 
end!—I tell you, the tale’s told from your doings 
with Holliment in Portsmouth right up to the last 
murder. Well, I guess here’s another chapter to¬ 
night!—those three fellows are the Chinaman’s ac¬ 
complices, or some of ’em. But . . . where is he? 
For, so long as he’s alive . . 

He made an expressive gesture, and we looked 
enquiringly at him. 

“What?” asked Peggie. 

“There’ll be more murder!” he answered. “For 
craft and subtlety . . . but let’s get down to this 
Mallant place and hear if the police have got any¬ 
thing out of those three men.” 

Walker, fearful of every shadow in the moonlit 
road, ran us down to Mallant in half-an-hour. The 
little town was fast asleep; there was not a footfall 
in its deserted streets, and the lights had long gone 
out in the windows of its quaint old houses. But 
there were lights in plenty at the police-station, 
and uniformed men enough in the corridors and pas- 


HANDS OUT! 


241 


sages. One, immediately on our arrival, ushered us 
straight into a private office, where we found the 
sergeant and two other men, evidently superior 
officials. On the table in front of them lay a miscel¬ 
laneous collection of articles—I guessed what they 
were before the sergeant spoke. 

“These are what we found on them, Mr. Cran¬ 
age,” he said. “No end of ready money, as you see. 
Good watches—personal appointments—all that 
sort of thing. But the main thing’s this,” he went 
on as he picked up a tiny pocket-book. “This was on 
the leader. There are entries in here about Holli- 
ment, Quartervayne, Neamore—addresses in London. 
There are some memoranda about all three which 
we haven’t made out yet, and some entries which 
refer to you and Lady Renardsmere. And there’s 
no doubt these three have been concerned in those 
London murders!” 

“I think you may be certain of that,” said I. 
“I’ve been sure of it for the last two hours. But— 
who are they?” 

“You may be sure they’ll not tell us that, Mr. 
Cranage,” he answered, with a grim smile. “That’ll 
have to be found out. Of course they refused to give 
names and addresses. But, unknown to him, the 
leader’s already been identified.” 

“Identified?” I exclaimed. “Already!” 

“Already, sir,” he replied. “One of our con¬ 
stables, who was formerly stationed in Portsmouth, 
knows him; knew him at once, when he was brought 


242 


RIPPLING RUBY 


in. He’s a man who was for some time assistant to 
a doctor in Portsmouth-” 

“Then—a medical man himself!” I said in amaze¬ 
ment. 

“Precisely, Mr. Cranage—a young doctor. He 
got into some trouble at his post, and was more or 
less kicked out. According to our man, he was 
lounging about Portsmouth for some time after 
that: was seen, you understand, with some shady 
characters. And putting two and two together I 
should say he fell in with this Chinaman whose 
story’s told in the London papers to-night. The 
other two are no doubt accomplices—we don’t know 
who they are . . . yet. And . . . where’s the 
Chinaman?” 

“That’s what we’ve been asking ourselves,” I 
answered. 

“Well—we’ve got these three, anyway,” he said, 
with a glance at his two companions. “They’re safe! 
Now, Mr. Cranage, you take Miss Manson home— 
and all three of you come back here at half-past ten 
in the morning. These men will be brought up and 
remanded . . . and after that . . . well, there’ll be 
some more for the newspapers, and a fine tale, too!” 

We went away. We took Peggie home to Man- 
son Lodge; then I took Peyton home with me to 
Renardsmere House. Next morning we all went 
back to the police-court at Mallant; there were the 
three men in the dock: silent, watchful—but the 
leader, despite his good looks, seemed more evil and 



HANDS OUT! 


243 


sinister than ever. A little evidence from two or 
three of us, and they were remanded and carried off 
under a strong guard. We all went home again— 
Peyton with me. And that day nothing happened, 
and the next day nothing happened. But on the 
third morning when I opened the newspaper the first 
thing I saw was a mass of big black type, which 
slowly resolved itself into this:- 

ANOTHER MYSTERIOUS MURDER! 

WELL-KNOWN LONDON SOLICITOR FOUND 
STABBED TO DEATH IN HIS OWN OFFICE! 



CHAPTER XIX 


THE FOURTH MURDER 

It needed no more than one glance at the letter- 
press which followed after these glaring headlines 
to show me what had happened. I knew, before I 
read one word more, that I should see a name there 

. . . and there the name was- 

PENNITHWAITE! 

I don’t mind confessing that this knocked me 
over in far worse fashion than anything that had 
transpired up to that moment. It was the sug¬ 
gestion of secrecy that did it—murder, secret and 
intangible, stalking like an impalpable thing rather 
than in a material form. Before I read a line 
further, I had a vision of that big, solemn room in 
the old house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields . . . the prim, 
elderly man of law . . . the whole atmosphere of 
papers and parchment . . . the orderliness of the 
place, as if some fussy, precise old maid tidied it 
every day . . . the quiet, regular beating of the 
clock on the mantelpiece, with a picture of some Lord 
Chief Justice over it, in his full robes and wig . . . 
and . . . and it faded into another ... of the 
same prim, elderly man, so meticulously fastidious 
in his personal apearance, so evidently strict about 
244 



THE FOURTH MURDER 


245 


the arrangements around him, lying across his desk, 
in a pool of his own blood . . . knifed! 

PENNITHWAITE ! The fourth murder—the 
fourth victim! And—the next? For, although 
three of his undoubted associates or instruments 
were safely locked and bolted in at Portsmouth 
Gaol, the Chinaman was still at large. Before I 
read anything, I knew that this was his work. While 
the other three had tried bullying and coercion on 
me to get at the secret of my mission from Lady 
Renardsmere to Mr. Pennithwaite, he, left in Lon- 
,don, had ferreted Pennithwaite out for himself . . . 
and here was more copy for the newspapers! 

It was only by a big effort that I could control 
my nerves sufficiently to hold the newspaper steadily 
before me. And I had to give that up; it shook and 
rattled so much in my hands that the lines of type 
ran together: I had to lay it down on the table close 
by, and bend over it. 

There was not a great deal to read, and it seemed 
to me that not one word came which I could not 
have anticipated. Just this:- 


“Another mysterious and terrible murder, ap¬ 
parently the fourth of a series, planned and exe¬ 
cuted with almost diabolical cunning, was 
discovered yesterday morning, when Mr. Pen¬ 
nithwaite, a well-known solicitor, having an ex¬ 
tensive connection amongst landed families, was 
found stabbed to death in his private room at his 



246 


RIPPLING RUBY 


office in Lincoln’s Inn Felds. The facts of the 
case, as so far given by the police authorities, are, 
on the surface, very simple. It appears that Mr. 
Pennithwaite, an elderly man, and a bachelor, 
whose private residence is at Seven Oaks, had a bed¬ 
room at his offices which he used when occasionally 
staying the night in town. On Tuesday evening he 
told the caretaker of the offices that he should stay 
in town that night and ordered his bedroom to be 
made ready. He was seen by his head-clerk at 
six o’clock, and then gave some instructions about 
leaving out certain papers on his desk for his con¬ 
sideration later in the evening. According to the 
caretaker, Mr. Pennithwaite, after his clerks had 
left, went out to dine at his club; it has been ascer¬ 
tained by the police that he did dine there, and 
remained there until ten o’clock. Some of his fel¬ 
low members who have been seen on the subject 
say that he was in his usual good health and spirits. 
The caretaker at Lincoln’s Inn Fields saw him 
come in at about half-past ten; he bade the care¬ 
taker good-night and went into his private office; 
the caretaker heard him lock the door. The bed¬ 
room used by Mr. Pennithwaite on these occasions 
opens out of the private office, there is no other way 
into it. Yesterday morning, when the clerks assem¬ 
bled at the usual time, from nine to ten o’clock, 
Mr. Pennithwaite had not come out of his private 
rooms, nor unlocked the door admitting to them. 
At half-past ten the head-clerk, having heard from 
the caretaker that Mr. Pennithwaite was certainly 
on the premises, and having failed to get any re- 


THE FOURTH MURDER 


247 


sponse to repeated knockings, went round to the 
rear of the building, and observed that the window 
of the bedroom was slightly open. He obtained 
a short ladder and getting into the room went for¬ 
ward to the private office. There he found Mr. 
Pennithwaite lying across his desk, dead, in a pool 
of blood. He had evidently been stabbed to death as 
he sat reading documents at his desk; the papers be¬ 
fore him were saturated with blood; a half-smoked 
cigar had fallen from his hand upon the carpet; 
on the desk stood a tumbler half-full of whiskey- 
and-water: everything showed that he had been 
caught and struck down unawares. The object of 
the murderer was made plain from a mere glance 
round the room, an apartment of considerable size. 
Every drawer in the desk had been pulled out 
and rifled; the contents were thrown all over the 
floor. The murdered man’s pockets had been 
turned out, too, where he sat; in one of the two 
safes in the room his keys were found dangling from 
the lock; the contents of the safes were lying in 
confusion in front of them. There were numerous 
chests and bureaus in the private room; every one 
had been gone through systematically. Whether 
the murderer succeeded in finding whatever it was 
that he sought for is, of course, not known, but there 
seems little doubt that he had managed to enter 
the private room while Mr. Pennithwaite was at 
his club, that he murdered his victim immediately 
after the latter’s return, and that he spent most of 
the night—the middle portion at any rate—in his 
mad search. Nor is there much doubt that this 


248 


RIPPLING RUBY 


murder is co-related to the murders of the three 
men, Holliment, Quartervayne and Neamore, and 
has been the work of at any rate one member of 
a gang operating in a subtly secret manner. The 
only satisfactory feature of the situation at present 
is that the police believe that three members of this 
gang are already under arrest on another charge, 
and that they feel confident that complicity in these 
murders will easily be proved against them. As 
regards the murder of Mr. Pennithwaite, however, 
there is not up to the time of writing the slightest 
clue as to the exact identity and whereabouts of 
the murderer. The most disquieting feature of the 
case is the ease with which he did his fiendish work 
and got clean away from the scene of his crime.” 

Peyton came into my room as I was finishing the 
last sentences of this account. Silently, I pointed to 
the headlines, and to the column which followed; 
silently, he leant over my shoulder and read the 
thing through for himself, while I re-read some of it. 
And at the end we stood up and looked at each other. 

“The Chinaman!” he said in a low voice. “His 
work! Didn’t I say so? As long as he’s at large 
there’ll be murder!” 

“As if I didn’t know that!” said I. “And—who 
next?” 

He nodded his head and sitting down began to fill 
his pipe. 

“This unfortunate old lawyer, now?” he asked. 
“Lady Renardsmere’s solicitor, eh?” 


THE FOURTH MURDER 


249 


“Just so!” I assented. “The man to whom I 
carried the packet.” 

“Which,” he said, solemnly, “contained, without 
doubt, the thing, whatever it is, that this Chinaman 
is murdering people to get hold of! Those fellows, 
the other night, got it out of you that you carried 
it to Pennithwaite?” 

“They did!—having first forced it out of Walker, 
with their revolvers, that he drove me there,” I re¬ 
plied. “But, of course, I didn’t know what was in 
the packet, so I couldn’t tell them.” 

“I’m not on that line,” he remarked. “I’m on 
this—those fellows were collared and locked up be¬ 
fore they could act on the information they ex¬ 
tracted from you. But—Pennithwaite’s been visited 
and murdered. Now then—is the Chinaman work¬ 
ing on lines of his own, or is it just that he, being 
left in London, found out about Pennithwaite and 
lost no time in acting? Which?” 

“That takes some thinking out,” I said, after a 
pause. “I think the Chinaman must have remained 
in London while the other three came down here. 
In a quiet countryside like this, a Chinaman would 
be spotted at once; in London-” 

“Many of them in London?” he interrupted me to 
ask. 

“Quite a lot! Down in the East End, a great 
many—Limehouse is China, to all intents and pur¬ 
poses,” I answered. “But these are Chinamen of the 
—I suppose—inferior classes. In other, better 



250 


RIPPLING RUBY 


quarters of the town there are Chinamen of superior 
class—what we should call gentlemen. What licks 
me about this particular man, Chuh Sin—all the 
name I know him by—is this: he’s lost part of an 
ear! Therefore he’s easily identifiable. Where can 
he get? Where can he put himself?—how does he 
keep in the shadow?—that he hasn’t been pounced 
upon before now? Good lord!—a Chinaman, with 
the lobe of his ear gone!—you’d have thought that 
the police would have combed him out of all the 
Chinese in London, days ago!” 

“Yes,” he said, nodding solemnly, “but your 
Chinaman is a past master in all sorts of things that 
Westerners can’t understand. That fellow’s fairly 
on the war-path for this mysterious article that 
he’s after, and it’s going to take a lot to stop him! 
My own opinion, of course, is that he didn’t find it 
at Pennithwaite’s. And so-” 

He paused and looked at me through wisps of 
curling smoke . . . significantly. 

“Well?” I said. 

“The thing’ll go on,” he remarked, laconically. 
“Holliment! That’s one. Quartervayne! That’s 
two. Neamore! That’s three. Pennithwaite! 
That’s four. And five will be . . . eh?” 

“For God’s sake, man, whom?” I exclaimed. 
“This is . . .” 

“Hell!” he assented. “Hell! But . . . got to be 
faced. The next’ll be Lady Renardsmere.” 

I said nothing. Instead I sat staring at him. I 



THE FOURTH MURDER 


251 


had a vision of my queer old employer—digging the 
garden. Lady Renardsmere . . . 

“Lady Renardsmere!” he repeated. “Sure! She’s 
got the goods! Or, if she hasn’t got the goods in 
hand, she knows where they are. Look at this, now, 
and see if there’s a flaw in it! Holliment and 
Quartervayne without a doubt robbed Chuh Sin of 
the thing which he’d robbed Mr. Cheng; Holliment, 
Quartervayne and Neamore sold that thing to Lady 
Renardsmere for ten thousand pounds; Chuh Sin 
and his lot murdered Holliment, Quartervayne, Nea¬ 
more and Pennithwaite in an effort to recover pos¬ 
session. But . . . sure as we’re breathing men, 
that Chinaman knows by now that if there’s one soul 
alive who knows where that thing—whatever it is 
—is , that soul’s Lady Renardsmere! And . . . he’ll 
go for her! Not, perhaps, this time, by murder.” 

“Then he’ll have to get out of England,” said I. 
“Lady Renardsmere’s on the Continent.” 

“How do you know that?” he suggested. “She 
mayn’t be. From all you’ve told me, Cranage, I 
reckon this old lady is playing a fine game of bluff! 
What I can’t make out is just this—what’s her 
game? What’s this thing she’s got hold of?—for 
the possession of which murder’s being done right 
and left? What is it? You tell me she’s a multi¬ 
millionaire!—well, is there anything she can’t buy 
that she lays a fancy to? What’s this thing?” 

“My own belief is that it’s some immensely fine 
stone—a priceless diamond, or something of that 


252 


RIPPLING RUBY 


sort,” I answered. “I told you she’s a craze for 
acquiring that sort of thing, and stops at nothing to 
get hold of whatever it is she takes a liking for. 
I’ve heard queer tales about her in that way—since 
I came here. But in this instance—why all the 
secrecy? For I’ll bet anything that when she bought 
this thing from Neamore she didn’t know but what 
it was a perfectly legitimate transaction—I mean 
she didn’t know that the thing was stolen property.” 

“When did she know that it was?” he asked. 

“I think, when Miss Hepple and I had a talk with 
her, and when the two detectives came down and she 
gave them the slip,” I replied. “That was when she 
cleared out.” 

“Um!” he said, reflectively. “I guess I know 
what she did, too, when she cleared out!” 

“I wish I did!” I exclaimed. “What did she do ?” 

“Seems pretty plain, Cranage, I think,” he 
answered. “She went straight to Pennithwaite’s 
office in London, and took away that thing from 
him. And I should say that wherever she is, she’s 
got it in her pocket. And that makes the situation 

_ 99 

Just then a knock came at my door and a footman 
entered. 

“Mr. Jifferdene to see you, sir,” he announced. 

I turned in surprise; Jifferdene, alone, was al¬ 
ready entering the room: it seemed to me that he 
looked unusually grave. I hastened to introduce 
Peyton. 



THE FOURTH MURDER 


253 


“Whose name you’ve seen in the papers, Jiffer- 
dene, in connection with our affair of the other 
night,” I said. “You know how those three men 
were collared-” 

“I’ve just come along from seeing ’em, at Ports¬ 
mouth Gaol,” he interrupted, sitting down between 
us. “I went down there first thing this morning to 
have a careful look at all three.” 

“Did you know any of them?” I asked. 

“Not one! Never set eyes on a mother’s son of 
’em before!” he replied. “Of course, as you know, 
one has been identified—renegade young medico 
who’s been knocking about Portsmouth ever since he 
was turned out by a doctor who’d employed him, 
and upon whom the police had had an eye for some 
time. But the others—nobody’s got a notion about 
their identity, yet. Time for that, though, Mr. 
Cranage. The thing is—there’s no doubt they’re 
members of that gang—the Chinaman’s.” 

“The thing—the real thing, Jiff er dene, is that the 
Chinaman’s at large!” I said. “He murdered Mr. 
Pennithwaite! One Chinaman—with the lobe of an 
ear gone—against the entire resources of the Lon¬ 
don police!” 

He nodded, as if m full comprehension of my 
meaning, but he looked neither offended nor crestfall¬ 
en. And instead of making any answer or comment, 
he suddenly leaned forward and tapped my knee. 

“Mr. Cranage!” he said. “Do you know where 
Lady Renardsmere is?” 



254 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“No!” I answered promptly. “I don’t! Do you?” 

He made no answer to that, either. His eyes 
suddenly turned to the newspaper lying spread out 
on the table. 

“They fetched me to that!” he said in a low voice. 
“I was there—at Lincoln’s Inn Fields—within half- 
an-hour of the head clerk’s discovery. That China¬ 
man—if it was the Chinaman—must have been in 
there for hours—hours! It looked as if he’d ex¬ 
amined every speck of dust in the place! And I’m 
wondering—did he find what he wanted?” 

He looked from one to the other of us. And it 
was Peyton who answered the question which he 
put. 

“I should say not!” he said. “No.” 

Jifferdene regarded him attentively and mus¬ 
ingly. 

“Aye?—and what makes you think that, sir?” 
he asked. “You’ll have reasons?” 

“Good ones!” said Peyton. “Because I don’t be¬ 
lieve the thing—whatever it is—was there to be 
found. Wasted time!” 

“Where, then, do you think that thing—as you 
say, whatever it is—may be, then, sir?” enquired 
Jifferdene. “You’re evidently well up in the 
matter.” 

“Read as much as I could of it in the papers, and 
Mr. Cranage there has told me more,” responded 
Peyton. “I think the thing’s in Lady Renards- 
mere’s pocket!” 


THE FOURTH MURDER 


255 


Jifferdene sighed, and nodded several times—at 
nothing. 

“Not so sure that I don’t think that myself,” he 
said softly. “And of course, if this Chinaman gets 
on to that, then . . . Lady Renardsmere will be the 
next.” 

“If you haven’t laid hands on him before he gets 
at her,” said I. “But do you mean to tell me, Jif¬ 
ferdene-” 

He got up, holding out a hand as if to stave off 
further remark. 

“I’ve had a rare lot of experience, gentlemen, in 
my time,” he said. “I’ve seen some queer things and 
strange things, and I’ve done some things myself 
that have been called both clever and smart. But 
I’ll tell you this—I’ve never come across the equal 
of this chap for diabolical cunning! But you didn’t 
see him! There’s no doubt that he’s been in Lon¬ 
don ever since that affair in Portsmouth in which 
you took part, Mr. Cranage; no doubt, either, that 
those three fellows I saw an hour ago are his tools 
or his accomplices, or both, but the man himself—• 
Lord save us! he might be a disembodied spirit, and 
_?? 

“I guess you’ll find him very material flesh and 
blood—yellow,” interrupted Peyton. “Disembodied 
spirits don’t carry knives!” 

Jifferdene nodded again—at nothing. Then, re¬ 
marking that he’d a car at the front and must be 
off, he said good-morning to Peyton, and motioned 




256 


RIPPLING RUBY 


me to follow him out. On the terrace, he turned 
confidentially- 

“Mr, Cranage,” he whispered, “a word for you 
alone! You say you don’t know where Lady 
Renardsmere is? I don’t know where she may be 
to-day, but I know where she was three days ago. 
In Paris! She was seen at the Hotel Bristol there. 
And guess with whom?—seen in conversation with 
him.” 

“Hang guessing!” I retorted. “Say, man!” 

“Mr. Cheng!” he answered, with a meaning look. 
“Mr. Cheng—whom Chuh Sin robbed!” 



CHAPTER XX 


THE PARK PANE BUTLER 

We stood looking at each other, in silence, for a 
full minute: then, although there was no one nearer 
than a footman who stood at the hall door and a 
taxi-cabman who waited at the foot of the steps 
leading from the terrace, we obeyed a common im¬ 
pulse and walked away from the house. 

“How do you come to know that, Jifferdene?” I 
asked. 

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Cranage,” he answered. “As 
you know, we’ve suspected, almost from the first, 
that somehow or other Lady Renardsmere had got 
mixed up in this business. You know how she gave 
me the slip when I came down here. That, of course, 
made things worse—why should she have wanted to 
get out of my way unless she’d something to con¬ 
ceal? We tried to find her in London, at her big 
house in Park Lane, then at one or two fashionable 
hotels where she sometimes stops—no good at any 
of these places! She may have been—probably was 
—at her Park Lane house for an hour or two that 
afternoon or evening that she slipped off from here, 
but after that there’s no doubt she made off to the 


257 


258 


RIPPLING RUBY 


Continent, by way of Dover—I got information that 
she’d been seen at Dover, at the Lord Warden Hotel, 
that night.” 

“You did!” I exclaimed. 

“Oh, I did!—I left no stone unturned to find her, 
because I knew that if I once got hold of her I 
could get some very necessary information out of 
her,” he answered. 

“However, she got away. Well, as you know, 
some days ago we decided at headquarters to give 
the widest publicity to all this business, and to take 
the press into full confidence, and, accordingly, 
those long accounts of the whole thing, from our 
angle, appeared, first in the evening, then in the 
morning newspapers—just at the very date of your 
adventure with those three fellows whom I’ve seen 
this morning in Portsmouth Gaol. Now yesterday I 
was called upon by the Paris representative of the 
Daily Sentinel —he’d come over to London on busi¬ 
ness connected with his paper. He told me that 
the day before he left Paris he had occasion to call 
at the Hotel Bristol, and that there he saw Lady 
Renardsmere in conversation with an old Chinese 
gentleman who was evidently a person of import¬ 
ance. He knew Lady Renardsmere well enough by 
sight, for he’d been a journalist in London before 
taking up his duties in Paris, and knew everybody 
of consequence about town; the Chinese gentleman 
he didn’t know, but like all journalists he was ready 
enough to find out, and he was soon told that he 


THE PARK LANE BUTLER 


259 


was Mr. Cheng, a Chinese financier of very high 
standing. Now, this man had, of course, read all 
about these mysteries in the London papers, and had 
seen Lady Renardsmere’s name mentioned, and Mr. 
Cheng’s, so he was naturally interested in seeing 
them together, and, knowing that he was coming 
over to London within a few hours, he determined to 
call on us at Scotland Yard and tell us what he’d 
seen. But, as he then had a little time to spare, and 
was well up in the case, which had keenly aroused 
his interest, he also determined, being on the spot, 
to give us a bit of practical help. And he did!” 

“How?” I asked. “What practical help?” 

“Well,” continued Jifferdene, “if you read the 
newspaper story, you’d see that it told straight out 
that Mr. Cheng was staying at that very Hotel 
Bristol in Paris when he was robbed of some extra¬ 
ordinarily valuable article—God knows what it may 
be, for we don’t—by his secretary, Chuh Sin. This 
journalist—smart fellow!—thought he’d try to get 
some description of Chuh Sin from people at the 
Hotel Bristol who remembered him. He succeeded 
in doing so—very easily—and he’s furnished me 
with their account of the man we want so badly: 
if Mr. Cheng had been frank and open with us, we 
might have been spared a lot of trouble and there’d 
have been fewer of these murders. This Chuh Sin 
is one of those Chinamen who, they say, might very 
easily pass for a European: he was given to dress 
very fashionably in Paris, and few people, in their 


260 


RIPPLING RUBY 


opinion, would have known him for a Chinaman— 
though, to be sure, they added, when seen in native 
dress, which he sometimes wore, the difference in his 
appearance was striking. As for the rest of him, 
he speaks French and English perfectly, English 
without a trace of accent, and is a very astute, 
ready-mannered person altogether. The hotel 
manager, who had a good deal of business to trans¬ 
act with him, spoke of him to this journalist as 
being a very clever man indeed—and I think, Mr. 
Cranage, we know him to be so!” 

“We also know, Jifferdene, that he’s markedly 
disfigured,” I said. “And so ought to be easily 
identifiable.” 

“Aye!—at close quarters !” he agreed. “But no¬ 
body’s ever been at close quarters with him—yet. 
However, we’re at work. But—what do you sup¬ 
pose Lady Renardsmere was up to with this old 
Cheng?” 

“I’m not going to speculate, Jifferdene,” I 
answered, “Lady Renardsmere has her own way of 
doing things and she dislikes and won’t have inter¬ 
ference. And—she reads the newspapers—a great 
reader—and she’ll know, therefore, what’s going on, 
and her own danger.” 

“Danger!” he said. “Aye—if it’s as I suspect, 
that she’s got mixed up with this, she is in danger, 
as long as that Chinaman’s going. We’re consider¬ 
ing about sending over to Paris to see and warn her 
—but ...” 


THE PARK LANE BUTLER 


261 


“You’d probably find her gone when you got 
there,” I said. “My own belief is that she’ll not be 
seen here until just before the Derby.” 

“The Derby!” he exclaimed. “To be sure, she’ll 
come home for that! Well, there’s time for a lot 
of water to run under London Bridge before that 
comes off, Mr. Cranage, though it’s getting near at 
hand. Now I’m going.” He shook hands and turned 
towards his cab, but paused again, nodding at the 
house. “It’s a wonder,” he said in a confidential 
whisper, “a wonder—to me—that there’s been no 
attack on that !—on her , while she was in it. But 
—it’s maybe that he—or they—have only recently 
known that she was concerned. Supposing-” 

“Supposing what, Jifferdene?” I asked. 

“Supposing you got a nocturnal visitor in the 
shape of the Chinaman?” he suggested. “It’s pos¬ 
sible!” 

“There are plenty of men in the house—and fire¬ 
arms, too,” I answered. “As for myself, I’ve car¬ 
ried a revolver in my hip-pocket for the last week.” 

“Well, I think you’re wise,” he remarked. “Murder 
stalking at large, eh? Well, we can only do our 
best, Mr. Cranage. We’re trying, whatever you 
may think.” 

He went away then, and I returned to Peyton, 
and to the interminable and profitless discussion. 
Peyton had become profoundly interested in the 
affair into which he had been accidentally pitch- 
forked, and being a man of means and leisure had 



262 


RIPPLING RUBY 


made up his mind to see it through. Indeed, he could 
not very well get away from it for a time, for his 
evidence was necessary at the repeated bringings-up 
of the three miscreants who were on remand, and 
whom he and I, Walker and Peggie had to confront 
from the witness-box until we grew sick of seeing 
their sullen or defiant countenances. As I could not 
extend Lady Renardsmere’s hospitality to him for 
ever, Peyton took up his quarters at the Renards- 
mere Arms, a convenient centre for keeping in touch 
with me and the police. As I had little to do at that 
time, he and I were much together, and we spent a 
great part of each day at Manson Lodge, where 
Rippling Ruby, guarded day and night as if she 
had been some Empress whose life and throne were 
in danger, was completing her preparations for the 
Derby. This sort of thing was going on when we 
arrived within one week of the Derby. And the 
situation then was this: The Chinaman had not been 
found, nor had the police come across one single 
trace of him. On the strength of the evidence 
brought against them, in which the memoranda 
found on the leader largely figured, the three men 
had been duly charged with the murders of Holli- 
ment, Quartervayne and Neamore, and committed 
for trial at the next assizes: the identity of the 
leader had been fully established; as for the other 
two, they still flatly refused to give themselves a 
name, and up to then the police had not succeeded 
in finding out who they were. And, perhaps more 


THE PARK LANE BUTLER 263 


important than anything to ourselves, up to then, 
the Friday before the Epsom Spring Meeting began, 
neither Peggie Manson nor myself had heard a word 
more, by letter or telegram, from Lady Renards- 
mere. But on that Friday the silence was broken. 

I was busy with such correspondence as there was 
that morning—not much had come in during Lady 
Renardsmere’s absence—when, about noon, Burton, 
the butler, entered There was an air of mystery 
about him, mingled, I fancied, with some sense of 
relief and satisfaction. He came close to my desk, 
and, quite unnecessarily, whispered- 

“Mr. Cranage! Joycey is here, sir—wanting to 
see you.” 

I looked up at him, wonderingly. 

“Joycey?” I said. “Who is Joycey?” 

“I forgot you didn’t know, sir. The butler at 
Park Lane. I—I think he’s a message from her 
ladyship. For you, Mr. Cranage.” 

I got up from my desk—a bit excitedly, no doubt. 

“Bring him in at once, then, Burton!” I said. 
“Has—has he any message for you?” 

“For me—no, sir. For you. I—I haven’t asked 
him any questions, sir. If-” 

“What, Burton?” 

“I wish you could get out of him where her lady¬ 
ship is, sir! I—the fact is, Mr. Cranage, I’m getting 
anxious, upset! And Joycey—he’s one of those 
close men—he wouldn’t tell me anything—however 
much I asked! If you, sir-” 





264 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“All right, Burton; show him in! Perhaps he’s 
going to clear things up. Anyhow . . 

I stood by my desk awaiting the Park Lane 
butler’s approach. He came presently; an irre¬ 
proachably attired person in black, soft-footed, 
soft-voiced, suave, polite, a pussy-cat sort of man, 
with the sort of face that you sometimes see in the 
pulpit of a fashionable church and occasionally 
under a barrister’s wig, and he made me a bow that 
could not have been more reverential if it had been 
addressed to Royalty. 

“Good morning, Joycey,” I said. “You have a 
message for me?” 

“Yes, sir. From her ladyship.” 

“All right!” said I. “Sit down. What is it?” 

He sat down, arranging his silk hat, his gloves, 
his umbrella to a nicety about him. 

“If you would please to wait a few moments, sir,” 
he answered. “The fact is, the message is to you 
and to Miss Manson, conjointly. Miss Manson was 
wired to, sir—to be here at noon precisely. It is 
now within a minute or two of that hour, sir.” 

“I see!” said I. “The message is to Miss Manson 
and myself. Very well. Let’s see if Miss Manson 
is coming.” 

I crossed over to one of the windows and looked 
out on the drive. Peggie was just cantering up. 
I went out on the terrace to meet her. She nodded 
as she jumped off her cob, as much as to signify 
that she knew what was going on. 


THE PARK LANE BUTLER 


265 


“Is he here?” she asked, as she gave the cob 
over to a footman who had hurried out. “I mean 
Joycey?” 

“He’s here in my room,” I answered. “Got a 
message for you and me—conjointly.” 

“From Lady Renardsmere?” she suggested. 

“Who else? Come on—let’s hear all about it.” 

We entered the room together: Joycey rose and 
did obeisance. I waved him to be seated again, and 
gave Peggie an easy chair opposite him. 

“Now, Joycey!” I said. “We’re all attention. 
What’s the message?” 

He cleared his throat—reminding me more than 
ever of a fashionable preacher—and began in a soft, 
mellifluous voice, almost deprecatory in its cadences. 

“From her ladyship, sir—to you and Miss Man- 
son. Her ladyship wishes you to know that she has 
taken Marengo Lodge, at Epsom, for the race week. 
From Monday morning next, sir, until the follow¬ 
ing Saturday morning. I go down there, sir, with 
a sufficient staff of servants from the Park Lane 
house early on Monday. Her ladyship will be 
obliged to you, sir, if you will go there on Monday 
afternoon, at any time convenient to yourself, sir, 
so long as you arrive in time for dinner, which will 
be served at seven o’clock.” 

He paused, looking enquiringly at me. 

“Quite so, Joycey,” I said. “Tell Lady Renards¬ 
mere I’ll be there—well before dinner.” 

“I am obliged to you, sir,” went on the bland 



266 


RIPPLING RUBY 


voice. Its owner turned himself more particularly 
to Peggie. “Her ladyship’s compliments to Miss 
Manson and Miss Hepple,” he continued. “Her 
ladyship will be pleased if Miss Manson and Miss 
Hepple will be her guests at Marengo Lodge during 
the race week, from Monday to Saturday.” 

Once more the enquiring look. Peggie glanced at 
me, and then nodded at the emissary. 

“Very kind of Lady Renardsmere, I’m sure,” she 
said. “Tell Lady Renardsmere Miss Hepple and I 
will accept her invitation, Joycey. It comes at the 
right moment, for I hadn’t made up my mind what 
to do, or where to stay. Yes—we’ll come!” 

“I am much obliged to you, miss,” said the voice. 
“Might I ask you, also, miss, to arrive in time for 
dinner on Monday?” 

“You might, Joycey, and we will,” answered Peg¬ 
gie. “We’ll arrive during the afternoon.” 

“Thank you, miss. I have but one more mes¬ 
sage,” the voice continued, and relapsed into its re- 
peating-a-carefully-learnt-lesson tone. “To Miss 
Manson. Lady Renardsmere is confident that, with 
the staff of private detectives and her own staff at 
her command, Miss Manson will in every way care¬ 
fully safeguard Rippling Ruby on her journey from 
Manson Lodge until she is stabled at Epsom.” 

‘You can tell Lady Renardsmere, Joycey, that 
Miss Manson will do all that!” said Peggie, with a 
laugh. “Rippling Ruby will travel in the thick of 
such a bodyguard as no Derby candidate ever had 


THE PARK LANE BUTLER 


267 


before or ever will have again—a quite unnecessarily 
large one, in my opinion. You can tell Lady 
Renardsmere, too, that I’ve made all arrangements 
for Rippling Ruby’s stabling at Epsom, and that 
she’ll be watched and guarded every blessed second 
until she’s saddled for the Derby. And you can tell 
her, too, Joycey, that she’ll win by more lengths 
than I can guess at!” 

“I am obliged to you, miss—I am obliged to you, 
sir. That’s all, sir,” said the voice. Its owner rose, 
bowed and glanced at the door. “I beg respectfully 
to wish you and Miss Manson a good morning, 
sir.” 

“Thank you, Joycey—same to you,” said I. “But 
—a moment! You’ve given your message and 
got our replies, which you’re evidently going to 
take to Lady Renardsmere. Is her ladyship in 
town?” 

The suave, bland countenance became inscrutable; 
the voice, when it sounded, had a touch of frost in 

it. 

“That I am not at liberty to say, sir.” 

“She will, of course, be at Marengo Lodge?” 

“I am not at liberty to say that, either, sir.” 

“But—won’t there be other guests than ourselves 
there? A house-party, eh?” 

“There will be no other guests than Miss Hepple, 
Miss Manson and yourself, sir, at Marengo Lodge.” 

I turned and looked at Peggie, and Peggie turned 
on the butler. 


268 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“But surely Lady Renardsmere’s going to see her 
own horse run!” she exclaimed. “She’s going to 
Epsom, surely, surely-” 

“I have no information on the point, miss,” 
answered Joycey. “I am not at liberty to make any 
statements other than those I have already made. 
I am merely a messenger, miss. And having dis¬ 
charged my mission-” 

“All right, Joycey!” I said. “We won’t keep 
you. We will all be at Marengo Lodge on Monday 
afternoon. Now I suppose Burton will look after 
you before you go back to town?” 

“Thank you, sir,” he answered. “Burton and I 
are very good friends, and I shall be safe in his 
hands, sir.” He retreated to the door after another 
bow. But with his hand on it, he suddenly became 
entirely human. He looked at Peggie, and a half¬ 
shy, half-humorous smile stole round the corners of 
his lips. “I suppose the filly’s bound to win, miss?” 
he asked. “Dead certainty, eh?” 

“Dead!” said Peggie, solemnly. “Nothing can 
beat her! Why, Joycey, have you been backing 
her?” 

He nodded reflectively, and his eyes took a far¬ 
away look. 

“I stand to win a lot of money, miss,” he answered 
simply. “I was fortunate enough to get decent 
prices as far back as last Autumn, and I have con¬ 
tinued to invest up to recently, when, of course, the 
price shortened. I shall be very comfortably off, 




THE PARK LANE BUTLER 


269 


miss, if the Renardsmere colours are first past the 
post next Wednesday. But if not . . .” 

He made a sepulchral grimace, shook his head, 
remembered himself, became once more transformed 
into the perfectly-trained serving-man, bowed and 
disappeared. Peggie and I looked at each other. 

“What’s it all mean?” she said. “Isn’t she going 
to turn up at Epsom?” 

“I shall be more astonished than I ever have been 
in my life if she doesn’t!” I answered. “This is 
merely another of her eccentricities. She’ll present 
herself at Marengo Lodge on Monday—or Tues¬ 
day—as sure as fate! By-the-bye, do you know 
Marengo Lodge?” 

“Yes,” she replied. “Well enough! It’s an old, 
picturesque house in the lower part of the town, in 
a thickly-wooded garden. Its owner lets it for the 
race week. It’s big enough for a large house- 
party.” 

“Then it’ll comfortably hold three of us!” I said. 
“I’m going to enjoy it. I’m a bit sick of sticking 
here, and I don’t care how soon Monday and some 
excitement comes. We’ve had too much of the wrong 
sort of excitement lately.” 

“You’ll get some excitement on Wednesday, my 
boy!” she laughed. “Wait and see!” 

But I was to get some before then, and of yet 
another sort. That very evening I got a message 
from the police authorities—the leader of the three 
arrested men desired urgently to see me. 


CHAPTER XXI 


WARNING 

It was Spiller, the Portsmouth detective, who 
brought me this surprising intimation. Pie came to 
Renardsmere House a few hours after the Park 
Lane butler had gone away, and I saw at once, from 
his manner, that he had got something mysterious 
to communicate. 

Peyton was with me when he arrived, but it was 
evident that Spiller was not going to speak before 
any third party, and I carried him off to another 
room. 

“What now, Spiller?” said I, as I shut the door. 
“Further developments?” 

He gave me a queer look and tapped my shoulder. 

“Macfarlane!” he said. “Macfarlane, Mr. Cran¬ 
age ! That’s why I’m here.” 

Macfarlane was the name by which the leader of 
the three men under remand was known. Whether 
it was his real name or not, I don’t know; it was the 
name, at any rate, by which he had gone during his 
inglorious career as doctor’s assistant at Ports¬ 
mouth, and by which he had allowed himself to be 
called during the proceedings before the magistrate. 

270 


WARNING 


271 


“What about Macfarlane?” I asked. “Not— 
escaped?” 

“Escaped!” he answered with a laugh. “Not 
much, Mr. Cranage! Small chance of that for any 
one of that lot! No—he wants to see you.” 

“Wants to see me!” I exclaimed. “Why?” 

“That’s only known to himself,” he answered. 
“He’s been pestering the governor to let him see 
you for this last day or two. He’s got something 
highly important to tell you. And—I came over to 
let you know.” 

“Something of a private nature?” I suggested. 

“Don’t know—haven’t the faintest idea—what it 
may be,” replied Spiller. “But as to privacy, you 
can’t see him alone. There’ll be a warder, or warders, 
present. However, for his purpose, warders might 
be chairs or tables. The thing is—will you come?” 

“I suppose I ought to,” I said. “What would 
you do?” 

“I should—certainly,” he answered. “You never 
know what you might hear. He’s seen nobody—not 
even a solicitor—since he and the other two were 
committed, but now he’s something more than keen 
about seeing you. That’s a sure proof that he’s got 
something to tell that’s worth hearing.” 

“Well—when, then?” I asked. 

“Meet me outside the gaol—main entrance—to¬ 
morrow morning at twelve,” he said. “I’ll fix every¬ 
thing for you. You can motor over there, Mr. 
Cranage ?” 


272 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Yes,” I answered. “I’ll be there. Twelve— 

noon.” 

He went away soon afterwards, and I returned to 
Peyton and told him of Macfarlane’s desire to see 
me. 

“Surely he’s not going to make a confession?—to 
me!” I said. “That would be-” 

“No confession!” interrupted Peyton. “My no¬ 
tion about that man is that he’ll go to the end with¬ 
out a word as to the main business. He’s played his 
game and lost—and he’ll take his beating without a 
grumble. No—he’s something to tell. Like to know 
what it is, too! It’ll be something out of the com¬ 
mon.” 

We settled that Peyton should go with me in the 
morning and wait in the car until I had seen Mac- 
farlane. Walker drove us in, and at noon I stepped 
down at the prison door and found Spiller waiting. 
Ten minutes later I found myself alone in a drab- 
coloured cell-like room, across the middle of which 
was a double row of bars. And presently, after a 
grating of keys in locks and clanging of bolts, in 
came Macfarlane, with one warder at his side and 
another in the cage between him and me. 

I looked at him with a feeling of intense curiosity. 
He was little changed. There was something of the 
air of the trapped animal about him, but he threw 
off all consciousness of his surroundings and nodded 
to me as if we were meeting under very common¬ 
place circumstances. 



WARNING 


273 


“Good morning, Mr. Cranage,” lie said, coming 
close to the bars. “I’m obliged to you for com¬ 
ing.” 

“You have something to tell me?” I answered. 

“Yes,” he said. Then he paused, looking at me 
steadily. “A question first. Do you know where 
Lady Renardsmere is?” 

“No!” I replied. “I do not!” 

“I’ve kept count of days,” he went on, with a grim 
smile. “Next Wednesday is Derby Day. Shall you 
see Lady Renardsmere before Wednesday?” 

“I can’t say,” I answered. “I hope to.” 

“But at any rate, you can see Miss Manson when¬ 
ever you like?—within an hour or two from now?” 
he said, almost eagerly. “That’s so, isn’t it?” 

“That’s certainly so!” I assented. “This very 
afternoon, if need be.” 

He nodded, as if with some satisfaction, and 
seemed to get closer to the bars which he was 
clutching. 

“I’m tied up!” he said, with a sardonic laugh. 
“This adventure ends—here!—for the time being, 
anyway. Lost—by a good many lengths ! But I’ve 
always been a sport, Cranage, and I’m a sport to 
the end. And if you can’t get in immediate touch 
with Lady Renardsmere you can with Miss Manson. 
So, here’s what I wanted to tell you—as a sport. 
The filly’s in danger!” 

I started back from my bars, in sheer astonish¬ 
ment: I believe the two warders, stolid-faced, im- 


274 


RIPPLING RUBY 


passive fellows that they were, started too—I’m 
certain, anyhow, that all three of us stared at Mac- 
farlane; stared as if he’d offered us some unbeliev¬ 
able news. 

“What ?” I exclaimed. “Rippling Ruby!” 

“Rippling Ruby!” he answered with a nod. “I 
tell you—in danger!” 

“In danger of what?” I asked. “Interference?” 

“Interference that’ll make it impossible for her to 
win,” he replied coolly. “And I’m held by the leg 
here, and I’m a sport, and all the rest of it’s over, 
and the filly’s the finest bit of horse-flesh I ever saw 
—and damn it, I’m telling you!” he suddenly burst 
out. “Get to Miss Manson, man, and tell her to 
watch her charge, herself, every minute from now till 
they get her saddled and off! Watch—watch!” 

I found it difficult to get a word out after that. 
I stood tongue-tied, staring at him. 

“I’m telling you, Cranage!” he repeated. “Tell¬ 
ing you!” 

“But,” I stammered at last, “the filly’s been 
watched day and night for weeks ! There’s a special 
guard of private detectives-” 

“Damn the special guard of private detectives!” 
he interrupted irritably. “I’m telling you what I 
know, Cranage. Get away at once and tell Miss 
Manson! Let you, and her, and that American fel¬ 
low take it in turns to keep your own eyes on 
Rippling Ruby till she’s literally at the starting- 
gate, or . . .” 



WARNING 


275 


He suddenly paused, and a queer look came into 
his sinister eyes. And just as suddenly he laughed, 
and when he spoke again it was in a cynical, sardonic 
fashion. 

“Never did a good turn to man or woman in my 
life, Cranage, that I remember!” he said. “Been 
kicked and cuffed about too much since boyhood 
myself! But—it does me good, somehow, to think 
I’m doing a good turn to—a pretty bit of horse¬ 
flesh ! That’s all, Cranage. Be off!” 

He turned swiftly away: the next minute I was 
alone. And I went swiftly away, too, out of that 
grim and gloomy place, and back to Spiller. . . 
and to Peyton, waiting in the big car at the 
gates. 

Spiller gave me a searching look. Inquisitive¬ 
ness was written big all over him. But this was my 
business. 

“All right, Spiller,” I said, as I made straight 
into the car. “I’ve seen him, and heard what he had 
to say. And—it’s of a strictly private nature. 
Good-morning!—get away out of the town, 
Walker!” 

We had cleared the outskirts of the town before 
I said one word to Peyton. Then, a few miles out, 
at an old-fashioned roadside inn, I made Walker 
pull up, and bidding Peyton get out, I took him into 
a private room and over a crust of bread and cheese 
and a glass of ale, told him everything. 

“What do you make of it?” I asked. 


276 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“That what he says is probably true!” he 
answered. 

“But how?—why?” I exclaimed. “What’s the 
filly got to do with all this murdering business? 
How does she come in?” 

“Lady Renardsmere comes in,” he said. “She’s 
owner.” 

I made an effort to reckon things up. 

“You don’t mean—revenge?” I asked suddenly. 

“May be something of that,” he assented. “This 
is it, Cranage—you don’t know, nobody knows— 
what you’re up against. That fellow you’ve just 
seen knows a lot more than he’s told. Queer kink in 
the man’s character!—that he’s told you this much. 
But he has told! Act!” 

“How?” I said. “How?” 

“Straight to Miss Manson, and tell her every 
word of it,” he answered. “He made a suggestion. 
The three of us were to watch, day and night, till 
Wednesday. I’ll take my share.” 

“I suppose you and I could do it between us?” I 
said. “You by day, I by night. If that doesn’t 
make things safe, with all those detectives, and the 
stable-lads, and all the rest of it . . .” 

“Let’s slip along to Manson Lodge,” he said. 
“The sooner she knows, the better. But, Cranage 

5 > 

He paused, shaking his head, and pursing his lips. 

“What?” I asked. 

“It’s the Chinaman again!” he answered. “He’s 


WARNING 


277 


at the bottom of this! Macfarlane’s given him away 
on this point, but—it’s the Chinaman! There’s 
some secret doings, secret knowledge behind every¬ 
thing—what is it? Seems to me the Chinaman and 
this gang of his have been one day too late all 
through—too late with Holliment, too late with 
Quartervayne, too late with Neamore, too late with 
Pennithwaite ! Rut—Macfarlane evidently knows 
that though he and the other two are caged, the 
Chinaman’s at large—and has a trump card up his 
sleeve! What? Connected with this race-horse and 
Lady Renardsmere! And Lady Renardsmere’s in 
the shadows. But the filly isn’t! Come on—let’s 
get to Miss Manson.” 

We walked into the dining-room at Manson Lodge 
as Peggie and Miss Hepple were just sitting down 
to lunch. They pressed us to join them, but we were 
both far too concerned—excited, in my case—to eat, 
and I was impatient enough until Peggie had cleared 
her parlourmaid out of the room and we four were 
alone. Then I told the whole tale. It produced 
different effects on its two hearers. Miss Hepple 
grew graver and graver—but Peggie waxed more 
and more impatient and angry. 

“The whole thing’s absolutely preposterous!” she 
burst out, when I had made an end of the story. 
“It’s as impossible that the filly can be interfered 
with as that—as that—oh, I can’t think of a simile! 
I never heard such nonsense! No horse that ever 
breathed has been so much looked after. How could 


278 


RIPPLING RUBY 


anybody get at her? There’s me, to start with!—- 
I’m worn nearly to skin and bone looking after her. 
There’s Bradgett!—he’s lost flesh in his anxiety 
about her. There’s her own boy—I’ve had literally 
to drive him away from her to get food and sleep. 
There are all my men and lads always round about. 
And there are those six private detectives, eating 
their heads off at Lady Renardsmere’s expense, on 
guard night and day!—the whole thing’s ridiculous. 
She’s never put her nose out of her box without a 
score of pairs of eyes being on her—never walked or 
galloped a furlong without being attended as if she 
were the King going to open Parliament—I tell 
you, it’s been and is a sheer impossibility for any¬ 
body to get near her! It’s rot!” 

“I think not!” said Peyton, quietly. “Not!” 

Peggie laid down her knife and fork and looked 
at him. Her face had been all aflame with unde¬ 
niable temper, but under Peyton’s steady gaze it 
regained its normal colour, and I saw that she had 
suddenly calmed down. 

“I think you’re a commonsense man, Mr. Peyton,” 
she said in level tones. “Now, then, why do you 
think it isn’t rot ?—when I think it is !” 

“Because I don’t regard it from your angle,” he 
answered. “It’s not that pretty bit of horseflesh on 
the other side your grounds there that’s to be got at 
—it’s Lady Renardsmere that’s to be got at through 
her. This man that’s lurking in the shadow, striking 
at nothing to get what he wants, has doubtless long 


WARNING 


279 


since discovered that Lady Renardsmere is mixed up 
in this thing, and has very likely threatened her 
unless she gives up the thing that he wants, and that 
he believes her, or somebody known to her, to be in 
possession of. How do you know what mayn’t have 
transpired, secretly, between him and her? Why 
does she hide? And why, all of a sudden, did she 
double the number of private detectives about her 
horse? No!—it isn’t rot! There’s danger—as this 
man Macfarlane said to Cranage.” 

“What danger?” demanded Peggie. 

“If I could answer that, there’d be no danger,” 
he replied. “I do not know what the danger is. But 
if I were you, I’d guard against it, still further. 
After all, it’s only for four days now.” 

“But what more can one do?” exclaimed Peggie, 
showing renewed symptoms of irascibility. “I can’t 
fasten the creature up in a steel safe, or stable her 
in the drawing-room! Nobody ever took the pre¬ 
cautions that I’ve taken. My father’s trained three 
Derby and five St. Leger winners in his time, and 
he’d have burst with laughter if he’d seen the way 
in which this filly has been looked after. Why 

“The circumstances are exceptional, my dear,” 
interrupted Miss Hepple. 

“Don’t talk platitudes, Aunt Millie!” retorted 
Peggie. “We all know that the circumstances—con¬ 
found them!—are exceptional. The thing is—what 
more can I do than I am doing? A whole regiment 



280 


RIPPLING RUBY 


of men and boys round the creature!—what can I do 
beyond that? If only people would be reasonable 

_ 55 

She glanced at me, drumming the table with the 
tips of her fingers, and there was that in her look 
which made me begin to think anew. 

“After all,” I said, with a glance at Peyton, “I 
don’t see what more Miss Manson could do! The 
filly’s being watched steadily, uninterruptedly, day 
and night-” 

“I’ll tell you precisely what the arrangements 
are,” interrupted Peggie. “As for daytime, there’s 
never less than a dozen pairs of eyes either on her or 
on her door. At night, either Bradgett or her own 
boy is always with her; one of the detectives is in the 
only room by which access can be had to her box, 
and two others patrol the yard outside. What more 
could one do?” 

“Precious little!” said I. “But let Peyton and my¬ 
self do that little. We’re willing to keep watch, 
alternately, from now until you take her off to Ep¬ 
som. It’s Peyton’s suggestion.” 

“It’s very kind of Mr. Peyton—of both of you,” 
answered Peggie. “If you want my candid opinion, 
as Rippling Ruby’s trainer, it’s absolutely unneces¬ 
sary. But if it’ll give you any peace of mind—mine 
isn’t even upset!—do it. Make your own arrange¬ 
ments—and yourselves at home, here. And now for 
goodness’ sake, shut up about all this nonsense, and 
have a drink!” 




WARNING 


281 


Peyton and I made our arrangements—after con¬ 
sultation with Bradgett and the detectives. They 
were simple—he was to sit up, at the stables, one 
night; I, the next; I to be on guard one day; he, the 
following—as supernumeraries. We followed this 
plan—and nothing happened. 

Nothing, at any rate, until soon after midnight on 
Sunday, at which time I was smoking and chatting 
with one of the detectives in the room outside 
Rippling Ruby’s box. 

Suddenly one of the men who patrolled the 
grounds came in. 

“There’s a man outside—very much covered up 
—who says you’ll know him, Mr. Cranage,” he said. 
“Will you come out and take a look at him?” 

He picked up a lantern that stood ready lighted, 
and I went out with him into the yard. 

There stood a heavily-coated and muffled figure, 
in charge of the other detective. There was no need 
to shine the light on him, for at sight of me he spoke. 

“Good evening, sir,” said a familiar voice. “It’s 
I, Mr. Cranage—Joycey!” 

“Joycey!” I exclaimed. “Good heavens !—what 
brings you here at this hour? Is Lady Renards- 
mere-” 

He interrupted me by turning and pointing across 
the grounds to the highroad that ran across the 
Downs, a quarter of a mile away. There I could 
see the powerful headlights of an automobile. 

“I came down in that sir,” he said. “And I’m 



282 


RIPPLING RUBY 


returning in it in a few minutes, as soon as I’ve done 
what I came to do. Her ladyship’s orders, sir. I’m 
to take a look—just a look—at the filly, sir.” 

“Dear me!” said I. “What!—to see that she’s 
alive?” 

“My orders, sir, are simply to see that she’s 
there,” he answered. “I told these two men so be¬ 
fore you were fetched out.” 

I turned to the two detectives. 

“This is Lady Renardsmere’s butler at her house 
in Park Lane,” I said. “You hear what his mis¬ 
tress’s orders are. And there’s no need to call Miss 
Manson—I’ll take the responsibility.” 

We went into the stables and to Rippling Ruby’s 
box, with a couple of lanterns. The stable-boy who 
slept there rose and blinked at us: Rippling Ruby 
herself turned her great liquid eyes on the lights. 
And Joycey gave her but one look, and drew 
back. 

“That’s quiet sufficient, gentlemen,” he said. 
“That’s all I was ordered to do. I thank 
you!” 

He muffled himself up again and went out: I 
walked a few yards with him across the grounds. 

“Queer proceeding, Joycey!” I remarked. 

“Many of her ladyship’s proceedings are truly 
remarkable, sir,” he answered suavely. “It’s not 
for me to understand them—or to question them. 
And—it’s Monday morning already, sir. You’re 
due at Marengo Lodge this afternoon, sir. Don’t 


WARNING 


288 


be late for dinner, sir—I can promise you ... a 
good one!” 

Then, without another word he went swiftly away 
towards the brilliant headlights, leaving me more 
amazed than ever. 


CHAPTER XXII 


MARENGO EODGE 

None of us, discussing the matter next morning, 
could make head or tail of Joycey’s nocturnal visit 
to Manson Lodge. What particular purpose could 
possibly be served by his sticking his head for half 
a minute into Rippling Ruby’s box and seeing that 
she was there? 

The thing was mysterious in the highest degree, 
and we only got one piece of satisfaction out of it— 
the certainty that Lady Renardsmere was some¬ 
where close at hand, whether that closeness meant 
London or not. But Peyton, discussing matters 
with me in private, broached a theory of his own. 

“This old Lady Renardsmere now, Cranage,” he 
said, eyeing me closely, “undeniably eccentric, eh?” 

“You can write that down as a dead certainty!” 
I answered. 

“Well,” he continued, slowly, “when people get to 
a certain age, and they’ve been eccentric all their 
lives, I guess there comes a time when mere eccen¬ 
tricity changes into something very like—not quite 
insanity, but a state nearly approaching it.” 

“You think Lady Renardsmere’s mad?” I sug¬ 
gested bluntly. 


284 


MARENGO LODGE 


285 


“Maybe she’s gone mad on one point,” he said. 
“She’s doing some queer things. The only question 
is—is it madness, or is it method? What’s she up 
to? I’m getting very anxious to set eyes on her.” 

“I shall be astonished if you don’t do that this 
evening or to-morrow,” I said. “She must turn up 
at Epsom! Her own horse! And—as far as I 
could gather—she’s as keen about winning the Derby 
as an owner can be—more than keen!” 

“Yes,” he remarked thoughtfully, “I’ve gathered 
that—perhaps in a way you don’t quite understand. 
Well—we migrate to this Epsom place to-day, don’t 
we? I’m seeing it right through, Cranage!—I’m 
going along with the procession, and I’ll put up at 
some hotel there, and stand by till the thing’s over. 
Say!—I don’t know much about these racing mat¬ 
ters—what is there that’s likely to give the filly any 
trouble about carrying off this big race?” 

“There’s a horse called Jack Cade, and another 
called Flotsam, and another called Roneo, and 
there’s a filly named Hedgesparrow, all well up in 
the betting,” I answered. “Jack Cade’s the big 
danger—he won the Two Thousand Guineas. But 
he’s at four to one this morning, and Rippling 
Ruby is at evens—she’ll start at odds on, and carry 
an awful lot of money then! Miss Manson says 
nothing can beat her, and I should say the stable 
has backed her so much that it hasn’t a penny 
left! If all goes well, we shall see her win in a 
canter!” 


286 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Interesting!” he said approvingly. “Well, I’ve 
never engaged in an adventure of this sort before, 
it kind of makes you feel big to be allowed to join in! 
But the care and attention that this creature’s get¬ 
ting!—might be an Empress going to be crowned!” 

Anyone who witnessed the migration of Rippling 
Ruby from Manson Lodge to Epsom that day might 
well have agreed with Peyton. We took her across 
country in a special motor-van—into which, by-the- 
bye, nobody but Peggie and her own special boy 
could coax her—surrounded by a larger entourage 
than surely ever attended horseflesh before. There 
were two of the private detectives in the van; the 
other four followed in a car; there was a second car 
containing Bradgett and three of his chief lads; a 
third carried Peggie, Miss Hepple, Peyton, myself 
and our luggage. We made a non-stop run over the 
Sussex and Surrey Downs to the stable at Epsom 
where Rippling Ruby was to be housed; none of us 
departed until we had seen her safe in her quarters 
and her guards set for the night and every precau¬ 
tion arranged for. And then Miss Hepple, Peggie 
and I went off to our own quarters at Marengo 
Lodge, and Peyton walked into the town to find a 
hotel. So far everything had gone beautifully, and 
Macfarlane’s warning had not justified itself: Rip¬ 
pling Ruby was safe on the scene of action, and so 
strictly under watch and ward that we saw no 
chance of danger. 

Marengo Lodge, to which I and my companions 


MARENGO LODGE 


287 


drove up at five o’clock that Monday afternoon, 
proved to be an old-fashioned red-brick mansion of 
considerable size, set in grounds which, if anything, 
were far too thickly encumbered with shrubs and 
trees. Outwardly it had rather a gloomy appear¬ 
ance, but it was comfortable enough within, and that 
we should be well looked after during our five days’ 
stay there I saw at once, for Joycey had brought 
down a number of servants, both men and women, 
from Park Lane, and when we arrived everything 
was running on well-oiled wheels. A housekeeper 
carried off Miss Hepple and Peggie to their rooms, 
and Joycey, who had received us at the hall-door, 
drew me aside. 

“I have a message for you, sir,” he said. “From 
her ladyship. Her ladyship, sir, has kept herself 
informed, by means of the newspapers, of many 
things that have transpired since she was at 
Renardsmere. She has read, sir, of the young 
American gentleman, Mr. Peyton, and of his rescue 
of you and Miss Manson. She directs me to tell you, 
sir, that if Mr. Peyton is at Epsom, or coming to 
the races, she wishes you to invite him to Marengo 
Lodge as your fellow-guest, with her compliments. 
I have two adjacent rooms already prepared for 
you and him, sir,—I thought, if he came, you’d like 
to be close together.” 

“That’s very kind of Lady Renardsmere, Joycey,” 
I replied. “Mr. Peyton is in the town, looking for 
a hotel—I’ll go out and find him and bring him 


288 


RIPPLING RUBY 


back. But look here!—is Lady Renardsmere com¬ 
ing here to-night?” 

“I am not at liberty, sir, to say anything about 
her ladyship’s movements,” he answered, with a sol¬ 
emn shake of his head. “Still, this I can say, sir,— 
her ladyship will not be here for dinner. There will be 
just Miss Hepple, Miss Manson, yourself, sir, and 
Mr. Peyton—if he accepts her ladyship’s invitation.” 

“I’ll get hold of him at once,” I said. “Of 
course, you saw Lady Renardsmere when you got 
back to town during the night, Joycey?” 

But Joycey was not to be drawn. His countenance 
became sphinx-like. 

“Anything relating to her ladyship, I am not 
allowed to discuss, sir,” he answered. “You will 
find everything here to your liking, sir, I am sure. 
It is her ladyship’s wish that you should act as host 
here, sir, and Miss Hepple, as senior of the two 
ladies, as hostess. All the servants are instructed to 
that effect, sir.” 

I left him and went off into the little town, in 
search of Peyton. I drew two hotels blank, but ran 
him to earth on the steps of a third. He stood there 
with his hands in his pockets, his suit-case at his 
feet, looking rather disconsolate. 

“Say!” he exclaimed, as I hurried up. “There 
isn’t a room to be had for love or money in any of 
these hotels!—they’re all full. They say here I’d 
better go into London, and come down to the races 
of a morning—not a room to be had in the place!” 


MARENGO LODGE 


289 


“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve just got an 
invitation for you—from Lady Renardsmere. 
You’re to come to Marengo Lodge as her guest. So 
—come on!” 

“Is she there?” he asked as he picked up his suit¬ 
case. 

“No!—and I don’t know where she is,” I replied. 
“It’s all mystery. But—I feel pretty certain she’ll 
turn up there—and perhaps to-night.” 

“Well, it’s very handsome of her to ask me,” he 
said. “I’d certainly rather be on the spot in this 
place, and see what goes on than have to go for the 
nights into London. But why isn’t she stopping at 
this Marengo Lodge?” 

“Don’t ask me!” I replied. “I’ve given it all up! 
I’m only concerned now with what happens from one 
hour to another. The next thing is to tidy ourselves 
up for dinner.” 

We went back to the house. Joycey showed us 
up to two remarkably well-appointed bedrooms, and 
told off a footman to look after us. In due course 
we descended to a drawing-room and joined Miss 
Hepple and Peggie. At seven o’clock we dined, and 
Joycey fulfilled his midnight promise to me and gave 
us a very fine dinner. And at nine, Peggie, Peyton 
and I went up to Rippling Ruby’s quarters and 
found all right and everything as it should be. We 
went back then to Marengo Lodge, and played a 
rubber of whist with Miss Hepple, and that over we 
all went to our respective rooms . . . each of us 


290 


RIPPLING RUBY 


still wondering when we were going to see Lady 
Renardsmere. 

We—that is to say, we three younger people—• 
were out on the Downs very early next morning, to 
see Rippling Ruby at exercise. Two or three of 
the other Derby candidates had also arrived; we 
had a look at them—so, too, did a good many other 
early birds. Jack Cade, brought from a Northern 
stable, was there—a fine animal, but after Peggie 
had seen him she declared abruptly that Rippling 
Ruby—with whose jockey, Medderfield, Peyton and 
I made acquaintance that morning—would win as 
she liked. So, too, evidently thought the sporting 
fraternity, for before noon in Epsom it was diffi¬ 
cult to get money on Rippling Ruby, except at odds 
on, while Jack Cade went back to six to one, Flot¬ 
sam to seven, and the others to anything. There 
was likely to be a field of from twelve to fifteen 
runners next day, and out of the lot nothing but 
Jack Cade looked really dangerous to our chance. 

We all went to that, the opening day’s pro¬ 
ceedings. I had never been at an Epsom race meet¬ 
ing before; neither, of course, had Peyton; the 
scenes on the Downs, so familiar to Peggie, to race¬ 
goers, and to a vast number of Londoners were 
absolutely strange to both of us. But we were not 
greatly interested in them; the fact was, our 
anxieties would not allow us to be. We felt safe 
and reassured about Rippling Ruby; the guardian¬ 
ship of her was stricter than ever; but we wanted 


MARENGO LODGE 


291 


to see her owner. Provided by Peggie with facilities 
for going anywhere and everywhere in stands and 
paddocks, Peyton and I made an exhaustive search 
of the whole place during the afternoon: Peggie, 
on her part, did a similar thing. But when the last 
race had been run—and I confess that I scarcely 
saw a bit of racing that first day—and we were 
going home to Marengo Lodge, not one of us had 
seen Lady Renardsmere. 

“I’ve had no end of enquiries about her during 
the afternoon,” remarked Peggie, who had gone 
racing in her best bib-and-tucker and looked un¬ 
believably grand. “And it was a bit trying for me, 
as her trainer, to have to say that I didn’t know 
whether she was going to turn up to-morrow or not. 
However, if she doesn’t-” 

She paused so long then that Peyton asked her 
to finish her sentence. 

“What?—if she doesn’t?” he enquired. 

“Oh!—I can lead Rippling Ruby in myself!” she 
answered. 

Peyton laughed at her tone of assurance. 

“ You’ve no doubt about her winning!” he said, 
teasingly. “Foregone conclusion, eh?” 

Peggie looked at him from under her smart hat. 

“Doubt!” she exclaimed. “What’s to beat her? 
There’s nothing can beat her! And if Lady Renards¬ 
mere is ass enough not to be there to see her win— 
well then, I’ll take what Lady Renardsmere won’t 
—all the honour of it!” 



292 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Good ! 55 said Peyton. “But—it strikes me we 
shall see Lady Renardsmere to-night.” 

He seemed confident about that, somehow, in his 
queer way. But Lady Renardsmere had not arrived 
at Marengo Lodge when we got in, nor was there 
any news of her, nor had she come by dinner-time. 
And knowing that it was useless to do so, nobody 
asked Joycey any questions about her. 

We dined later than usual that Tuesday evening, 
and the darkness had fallen outside before dinner 
was over. We were just rising from table and talk¬ 
ing about going round to see Rippling Ruby when 
Miss Hepple, who sat facing a big window that 
looked out on the grounds, suddenly started from 
her chair with a sharp scream. 

“There! Quick!” she cried. “The window! A 
man’s face. Look!” 

Neither blinds nor curtains had been drawn across 
the window; the room itself was brilliantly lighted; 
outside the window the gardens and grounds lay 
black. It seemed to me as I slewed round in my 
chair, following the direction of Miss Hepple’s shak¬ 
ing, pointed finger, that I saw something like the 
ghost of a face, at one corner, and the movement of 
a dark body as the ghost-like thing disappeared, 
Peyton saw, too, and whether he had quicker and 
sharper vision than I or not, he let out a smothered 
exclamation as he leapt to his feet. 

“The Chinaman!” 

Then his hand slipped round to his hip-pocket, 


MARENGO LODGE 


293 


and he made a dash for the window, while I, thinking 
it quicker, dashed out of the room, through the hall 
and into the garden. We met, on a sort of terrace 
that lay between the dining-room and the grounds. 
Met ... to stare at each other in the glare of 
light from the room, and then at the gloom all 
round us. 

“Cranage, that was he, as sure as fate!” muttered 
Peyton. “Sure!” 

“The Chinaman?” I gasped. 

“I saw his face—for the fraction of a second,” 
he answered. “He’s slipped off, of course. And 
what good is it searching the grounds? Out there,” 
he went on, pointing to the furthest part of the 
garden, “out there, as you know, there are open 
fields, then those coppices, and beyond that, thick 
wood—I’ve noticed all that since we came, yester¬ 
day. But he’s here! Here!” 

“Looking for Lady Renardsmere, of course,” said 
I. “Still, he may be lurking about. Let’s have a 
look round.” 

“Useless!” he said. “But if you like-” 

I went back into the house, told Joycey briefly of 
what had occurred, and taking a couple of the men- 
servants, returned to Peyton. We went cautiously 
round garden and grounds, and found nothing. 

“Never expected to,” remarked Peyton, as we 
made for the house again. “He got his look through 
the window and went off. But—we now know that 
he’s here—in Epsom.” 



294 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“The police!” I suggested. “We might tell them.” 

“Not much good, I should think,” he answered. 
“He’ll find it easy enough to lie close in those 
woods. Besides—the number of people there are 
about!—sleeping out on those Downs, I understand? 
Take a battalion of police to search for one man— 
to-night.” 

We went back to Miss Hepple and Peggie. Peggie 
had already got into a hat and coat. 

“I’m going up to the stable,” she said. “China¬ 
man or no Chinaman, and whether he wants to cut 
Lady Renardsmere’s throat or not, I’m going to 
see the filly! That’s my job.” 

“I’ll go with you,” said I. “Perhaps you’ll stay 
with Miss Hepple, Peyton?” 

He nodded his acquiescence, and presently Peggie 
and I set out. Marengo Lodge was at the bottom 
of the town: Rippling Ruby was stabled near the 
course, up on the Downs; we had some little distance 
to walk, and up a dark lane, too. 

“Do you really think that was the Chinaman?” 
asked Peggie, when we’d got fairly off. “Did you 
see him, Jim?” 

“I saw what I’m sure was a face,” I answered. 
“Just saw it—and saw something move away. I’ve 
no doubt it was the Chinaman—after Lady Renards- 
mere. That shows he’s here—on the spot.” 

She made no answer for a while. We walked 
rapidly up the dark lane. 

“Lady Renardsmere must look after herself,” she 


MARENGO LODGE 


295 


exclaimed suddenly. “But the filly!—I think it’d 
break my heart if anything happened to her!” 

“But you’ve felt sure nothing can happen to her,” 
I said. “You’ve laughed at any idea of it!” 

Again she was silent for a few moments; again 
she spoke suddenly. 

“I don’t know why,” she said, “I’m a bit—de¬ 
pressed. I feel as if something was going to happen. 
Excitement, perhaps, but-” 

“Shall I stop at the stable to-night?” I suggested. 
“I will, if-” 

“No—no!” she said. “There’s no need. All those 
men!—and Bradgett. I trust Bradgett beyond 
everybody. No !—it’s ridiculous ! Of course, the 
filly’s safe as safe can be!” 

She seemed safe enough when we saw her, ten 
minutes later. It was difficult to imagine how any 
harm could possibly come to her. Peggie cheered up 
on seeing her, and we went back to Marengo Lodge, 
feeling that, after all, everything was all right. 

It was then ten o’clock. The four of us sat dis¬ 
cussing matters until half-past. Then, just as Miss 
Hepple had announced her intention of retiring, we 
heard the whirr of a powerful automobile outside 
on the drive; then voices at the door and in the 
hall; within a moment Joycey threw open the door 
of the dining-room and stood aside . . . 

Lady Renardsmere . . . and behind her, in the 
hall, two big, burly, stern-faced men in plain clothes 
—clearly, her bodyguard. 




CHAPTER XXIII 


THE BURMA RUBY 

We all rose to our feet as Lady Renardsmere 
walked into the room. Sheer astonishment at her 
sudden appearance kept us silent—and staring. Be¬ 
fore Joycey could retire, she turned sharply on him, 
pointing with what was doubtless one of her old 
imperious stage gestures to the window whereat an 
hour before we had seen the Chinaman’s face. 

“Pull down those blinds and draw those cur¬ 
tains !” she commanded. “Close.” 

Then she turned to us, motioning us to seat our¬ 
selves. Like school-children, awed by the movement 
of a magisterial finger, we obeyed; she herself 
dropped into a chair at the side of the table. 

“Go away and shut the door, Joycey,” she went 
on, as the butler having discharged his task came 
back from the window. “See to those men outside— 
if they want a drink, give them one, but see that 
they don’t leave the hall. Cranage!—lock the door 
after Joycey. Now,” she continued, when I had 
turned the key. “I hope all you people are com¬ 
fortable and are being well looked after? That’s 
the American man, no doubt ?—I hope I see you well, 
296 


THE BURMA RUBY 


297 


sir? Peggie Manson!—the filly’s all right, I sup¬ 
pose?—right and fit?” 

The filly’s all right, Lady Renardsmere, and 
as fit as she can be,” replied Peggie. “I saw her 
myself within the hour. She’s safely guarded and 
will be till it’s all over. You can go and look at her 
yourself if you like.” 

Lady Renardsmere made no answer to this invi¬ 
tation. She was undoing a big heavy cloak which 
wrapped her from head to foot; as she threw it back 
from her shoulders with one hand she pointed with 
the other to the table in front of her. 

“Come and sit round this table, all of you,” she 
said. “I want to have a talk to you—all. That’s 
why Pve come down to-night. Come!” 

Under pretence of drawing chairs up to the table 
for Miss Hepple and Peggie, Peyton contrived to 
get close to me. And he whispered a word in my ear 
which only I caught. 

“Mad!” 

I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t right. There was a 
queer look in Lady Renardsmere’s eyes; a strange¬ 
ness in her manner; a strange jerkiness about her 
movements. And as I sat down opposite her I began 
to watch her steadily. Yet her voice was firm 
enough, and her words coherent enough, and there 
was the old, familiar, brusque, peremptory tone. 
Still . . . 

“You’re all wondering what I’ve been after since 
I left Renardsmere,” she said when we had gathered 


298 


RIPPLING RUBY 


round the table. “I’ll tell you! I’ve been making 
sure of something that I was bound to possess—' 
something that’ll make my winning the Derby to¬ 
morrow a dead sure thing. This !” 

With a sudden swift movement she drew from the 
folds of her gown a package of soft white tissue 
paper and placed it on the table before her. With 
equally swift movements she tore the paper away, 
and revealed a slender, snake-like belt of bright 
green leather, in the centre of which was a round 
brooch-like thing, a sort of medallion of solid-gold. 
And in the centre of that was set a magnificent 
blood-red stone, at sight of which Miss Hepple let 
out a sharp cry. 

“A ruby!” 

“The Burma Ruby!” said Lady Renardsmere. 
“The finest ruby in the world! There never was 
such a ruby. And—mine! Look at it! Touch it! 
Handle it!” 

But not one of us put out a hand. I suppose the 
others were thinking what I was thinking. Here, 
before us, baleful and suggestive in the glare of the 
electric light above our heads, was the thing that 
had caused murder! Between it and me rose the 
ghost-faces of four dead men . . . 

“Rippling Ruby will carry that to-morrow!” said 
Lady Renardsmere. “She’ll wear it round her neck 
—nothing can beat her, wearing that! It’s a magic 
stone—a fetish! If she were half-trained she’d win, 
with that on her! Round her neck, to-morrow!” 


THE BURMA RUBY 


299 


I looked round at my three companions. It was 
not difficult to see that the opinion which Peyton 
had formed so quickly was already shaping itself 
in the minds of Miss Hepple and Peggie—each was 
staring at Lady Renardsmere as if fascinated—and 
frightened. 

And I was frightened myself; frightened of the 
whole thing; frightened of what might come next. 
For there was that in Lady Renardsmere’s manner, 
increasing with every moment, which suggested 
strange things; she sat there looking from one to 
the other of us, with burning eyes, toying with the 
green belt and the blood-red stone in its gold 
setting . . . 

“Listen!” she said suddenly, bending over the 
table towards us. “I’ll tell you all about it! This 
was once a sacred stone!—it was set, it with 
another, now vanished, in a certain idol. It was 
broken out—out of the eye-sockets. It went through 
strange adventures. It came at last into the hands 
of a group of Chinese financiers—they paid a great 
price for it. One of them, Cheng, coming to Europe 
on business, brought it with him, thinking to sell it 
to some English or American millionaire. It was 
stolen from Cheng in Paris by his secretary, Chuh 
Sin. It was stolen from Chuh Sin in Portsmouth 
by a man named Holliment, who had another man, 
Quartervayne, in league with him. Holliment and 
Quartervayne escaped to London with it, and took 
another man, Neamore, into their confidence about 


300 


RIPPLING RUBY 


it. Neamore had once had business with me, under 
another name, about diamonds: he came to me and 
offered the stone. I bought it from him and Holli- 
ment and Quartervayne: I gave them ten thousand 
pounds for it. They deceived me: I believed they’d 
the right to sell. But they were punished!—Chuh 
Sin and a gang he’d got together were on their 
track, and Holliment and Quartervayne and Nea¬ 
more were murdered. Then I found out the truth— 
and I got the ruby away from Pennithwaite’s, where 
I’d sent it for safe keeping, and went off to find 
Cheng. I found him—in Paris. And I persuaded 
him to sell all his and his friends’ rights—I paid him 
forty thousand pounds. I’ve the receipts in my 
pocket; it’s signed in Chinese and in English. And 
so the ruby’s mine!—mine!—and Rippling Ruby 
will wear it to-morrow as her mascot. I stand to 
win half a million of money on Rippling Ruby!” 

She suddenly pushed the belt of green leather 
across the table towards Peggie. 

44 You’ll put that round her neck when she’s sad¬ 
dled to-morrow afternoon, Peggie Manson!” she said 
in her old imperious manner. 44 Then-” 

Miss Hepple rose from her seat—quickly. 

44 If you leave that thing in this house to-night, 
Lady Renardsmere, out of this house I go, and my 
niece with me!” she said quietly. 44 I wonder that 
you can ask any decent person to look at it, much 
less handle it! There’s blood!—lives of men!— 
on it! Peggie!—not a finger near it!” 


THE BURMA RUBY 


301 


“I’ve no intention, Aunt Millie,” said Peggie. “I 
wouldn’t touch it for all that Lady Renardsmere 
gave for it!” 

Peyton gave me a kick under the table. I knew 
what he meant. Put into plain language, there was 
going to be a row between the three women. And 
one of them, in our masculine opinion, if not wholly 
mad, was as mad as a hatter on one point. But— 
did the other two fully realise it? 

I took a furtive glance at Lady Renardsmere. 
The strange glitter had gone out of her eyes, and 
she looked, suddenly, her old masterful ordinary self. 
Once more she pushed the green belt closer to 
Peggie. 

“Rippling Ruby’s to carry that when she runs 
to-morrow!” she said. “You’ll put it on her when 
Medderfield’s up.” 

“No !” said Peggie, determinedly. “I will not!” 

Lady Renardsmere began to drum the table with 
her jewelled fingers. She always wore a lot of rings, 
but that night she was wearing more than usual, 
and the diamonds flashed and glittered as her hands 
moved. 

“You’re my servant!” she snapped. 

“No, I’m not!” retorted Peggie. “I’m your 
trainer! But I’ll be no party to your horse carry¬ 
ing that beastly thing! There—that’s flat!” 

Again the drumming on the table from the stiff, 
rigid figure. Suddenly Lady Renardsmere turned 
to me. 


302 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Cranage!—tell this girl she’s a fool!” 

“No !” I said firmly. “She isn’t!” 

“You, too?” she exclaimed. “Then—” she 
twisted round on Peyton and gave him a steady 
stare to which he just as steadily responded. “You 
look like a man of commonsense, you American,” 
she said. “Talk sense to these people!” 

Peyton clasped his hands on the table in front of 
him, and sitting bolt upright, gave Lady Renards- 
mere a long, calm look. 

“Well, if you’ve no objection, Lady Renards- 
mere,” he said quietly, “I’ll talk a little common- 
sense to you. You’re aware, by your own confes¬ 
sion, that lives have already been taken by the 
Chinaman, Chuh Sin, in his efforts to get that thing 
back. You mentioned three names—there’s a fourth 
to add—your solicitor, Pennithwaite. And—the 
Chinaman’s at hand! He looked through that very 
window not two hours ago. And if I’m to talk 
commonsense, it’ll be to advise Miss Manson to stick 
to what she’s just said, and have nothing to do with 
that ruby—it’s accursed!” 

“I will have nothing to do with it!” said Peggie, 
firmly. “I’ll give up all connection with Lady 
Renardsmere and her stable first! That’s final.” 

I was scarcely prepared for what followed. But 
suddenly, and with an agility which would have 
done credit to a younger woman, Lady Renards¬ 
mere jumped to her feet, took two steps to the door, 
unlocked it, and turning to the electric bell at its 


THE BURMA RUBY 


303 


side, pressed the button. Within half-a-minute, 
Joycey stood before her. She swept her hand round 
at the rest of us. 

“Joycey, turn all these people out of my house!” 
she said in sharp, firm tones. “Everyone! out they 
go! Give them ten minutes to pack their things, 
and then—out!” 

“My lady!” said Joycey in his softest tones. “If 
your ladyship . . .” 

“Do as I tell you!” she stormed. “Out!—the 
whole lot!” 

Then, snatching up the green belt from the table, 
she thrust it into her gown, and walking out into 
the hall to the two big men, motioned them to follow 
her into another room. All three disappeared. 

We lost no time in obeying Lady Renardsmere’s 
orders. Peggie had her own car and her own 
chauffeur in the garage at the back of the house, 
and in less time than had been given us, we had all 
packed our suit-cases and walked out. Presently 
we were in the car and out in the street—under the 
stars. 

“Where now?” said Miss Hepple, as the chauffeur 
turned for orders. 

“Tell him to go into London, Jim,” answered 
Peggie. “We’ll get in somewhere.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE SADDLING PADDOCK 

We got in—at one of the big hotels in Northum¬ 
berland Avenue. Late though it was, then, none of 
us had a mind for immediate retirement; we got 
together in a corner, a perplexed and forlorn gath¬ 
ering. Peggie was in the lowest depths of despair—- 
and I knew where her thoughts were. 

“Of course everything’s over between Lady 
Renardsmere and me!” she said, suddenly breaking 
an uncomfortable silence. “If she turns me out of 
her house, she’ll turn me out of her stables to¬ 
morrow morning. It’s all over!” 

“My dear, the woman was beside herself to-night,” 
said Miss Hepple. “She—she might have been 
drinking, from her behaviour. In the morning-” 

“No!” exclaimed Peggie. “I know her! She’ll be 
no different in the morning. She’s gone clean mad 
on that notion about the filly carrying that damned 
ruby! I tell you I know her. She isn’t mad—she’s 
as cram full of superstition about precious stones 
as ever a woman could be—always was, ever since I 
knew her. And she’ll stick that green belt round 
Rippling Ruby’s neck to-morrow, whatever any- 
304 



THE SADDLING PADDOCK 


305 


body says! And as I’ll have nothing to do with it 
and won’t countenance it—there’s an end. I’m her 
trainer no longer. I won’t give way!—I don’t con¬ 
sent to the creature wearing a thing like that, sticky 
with men’s blood. And she won’t give way—if 
Medderfield, for instance, felt like me about it, and 
refused to ride, she’d bundle him off and get another 
jockey—anybody, even a stable-lad. She’ll make 
Rippling Ruby carry that beastly thing, and if 
she does . . 

“Well?” asked Peyton, after a pause. “What if 
she does?” 

“Then Rippling Ruby won’t win the Derby!” 
answered Peggie in a low voice and with a sombre, 
moody look in her eyes. “That’s a sure thing!” 

“Oh, come!” said Peyton. “That’s superstition, 
surely! You’re getting as bad as Lady Renards- 
mere.” 

“It isn’t superstition,” retorted Peggie. “It’s 
intuition. I feel it!” 

“If you’ve got such a feeling, don’t give way to 
it,” counselled Peyton. “Come!—the filly’s an in¬ 
nocent enough animal, anyway. If Lady Renards- 
mere’s so crazed with her superstitions as to insist 
on Rippling Ruby’s carrying that stone—why, that 
won’t interfere with the creature’s running powers, I 
reckon. Not a nice thing to think of, certainly, 
that she should carry an object that men have been 
murdered for—but I guess sentiment doesn’t come 
in where horse-racing’s concerned. And maybe, as 


306 


RIPPLING RUBY 


Miss Hepple suggests, Lady Renardsmere’ll have 
come to her senses in the morning—she’s an impul¬ 
sive old party, seems to me—and we’ll get things 
cleared. I propose we all go to bed and keep cheer¬ 
ful—after all, the main thing is to win that race.” 

But a bit later, in his own room, into which I had 
turned for a drink and a cigarette, Peyton shook his 
head. 

“That old woman’s clean mad, Cranage!” he said. 
“No use frightening the girl any more, but I reckon 
Lady Renardsmere’s upset the pan and all the fat’s 
in the fire!” 

“How, exactly?” I asked. “I mean as regards 
the filly?” 

“Lady Renardsmere’s at Epsom—at least, we left 
her there,” he answered. “And—so is the China¬ 
man ! He’ll go for one or both, at one, perhaps, to 
get at the other. But—he’ll act. It’s what he’s 
there for.” 

“The filly’s safe as the Bank of England!” said I. 

“How do you know that?” said he. “Was—you 
mean! For anything you know, her crazy owner’s 
been up to that stable by now and taken her away. 
I tell you, in spite of whatever Miss Manson may 
say or think about superstition, Lady Renardsmere 
is mad!—clean off her head. And nobody knows 
what a madwoman will do next!” 

“Sane enough to lug a couple of big brutes about 
with her as a bodyguard!” I remarked. “I’m not 
at all sure that she’s mad.” 


THE SADDLING PADDOCK 


307 


“You don’t understand,” he said. “She may be 
sane enough on nine points and irredeemably mad 
on a tenth. The tenth in this case is that ruby. 
All very well for me to say downstairs that perhaps 
the old lady’ll have come to her senses in the morn- 
in—that was to cheer up Miss Manson. My own 
belief is she won’t!—she’ll make the filly carry that 
stone—and the Chinaman’s round!” 

He began to undress, and for a minute or two I 
sat smoking and thinking. 

“Tell you what!” I said suddenly. “We’re close 
to Scotland Yard, here. I suggest that you and I 
go round there early to-morrow morning, before we 
set off to Epsom, and try to see Jifferdene, and if 
we get him tell him about the Chinaman. He might 
think it worth while to go down and to take assist¬ 
ance with him.” 

“Good!” he responded. “Early as you like. But 
it’ll be something like the needle in the bundle of 
hay!” 

“Scarcely,” said I. “If, as you say, the China¬ 
man’s fixed on either Lady Renardsmere or her 
horse, he’d have to get near one or the other to 
operate. Eh?” 

“Neither you nor I know what that extraordinary 
combination of craft and subtlety will do,” he 
answered oracularly. “However, no harm done in 
seeing Jifferdene.” 

He and I went round to Scotland Yard as soon as 
we had breakfasted next morning. We struck Jif- 


308 


RIPPLING RUBY 


ferdene almost at once—and stared at him. He was 
in immaculate racing get up—a heavy swell, with 
field-glasses slung over his shoulders and a tall white 
hat with a black band. 

“Needless to ask where you’re going, Jifferdene!” 
I remarked with a laugh which—to me—sounded 
very hollow. “It’s proclaimed—all over you!” 

“Professional rig-out, Mr. Cranage,” he said. 
“Duty, sir! There are several of us—not all 
arrayed in this purple and fine linen, though—going 
down. You’ll find me in the saddling paddock if 
you want me. But—what brings you here?” 

“Jifferdene,” I said, “the Chinaman’s at Epsom. 
Listen!” 

I told him the story of last night’s apparition 
and of the subsequent events. He listened atten¬ 
tively, taking it all in. 

“And you left Lady Renardsmere down there?” 
he enquired as I finished. 

“At Marengo Lodge,” I answered. “We don’t 
know, of course, if she stopped there. Probably she 
did, though one of her big cars was waiting in the 
courtyard. But we left her—with her bodyguard.” 

“I’ll soon settle that,” he remarked, turning to a 
telephone. “I know now about her Ladyship and 
her bodyguard, too—got information about her late 
yesterday afternoon. Lady Renardsmere, gentle¬ 
men, attended by two private enquiry agents, ex¬ 
policemen, has been staying in a suite of rooms at 
the Great Central Hotel for the past ten days, with 


THE SADDLING PADDOCK 


309 


her maid and one man-servant. I’ll ring them up 
and ask if she’s still there.” 

Five minutes later he turned from the telephone. 

“Lady Itenardsmere went down to Epsom late 
last night,” he said. “She didn’t return. So— 
we’ll suppose she’s there. Very well!—that simpli¬ 
fies matters.” 

“How?” asked Peyton. 

“Our plan will be—unobtrusively—to keep close 
to her, and close to her horse,” said Jifferdene. “If 
this Chinaman attempts to interfere with either— 
eh? You see the point? Now then—just tell me 
precisely where Marengo Lodge is, and where the 
filly is stabled, and within an hour from now I and 
my men’ll have both under the closest surveillance 
—we’ll be down there before you are!” 

We gave him the fullest particulars, left him, and 
went back to our hotel. It was then a little before 
ten o’clock; by a quarter past we were all in Peg¬ 
gie’s car and on our way to Epsom. The usual pro¬ 
cession from town had already got into full swing; 
it was a particularly fine morning, and from what 
we saw as we crossed Westminster Bridge and set 
out southward, the attendance on the big race 
promised to be a record one. It seemed to me that 
we should make slow progress over fourteen miles 
that lay between us and the Downs, but Peggie’s 
chauffeur, an old Cockney, knew his district, and by 
a judicious use of sundry short cuts and round¬ 
about turns, he got us to the Grand Stand at Epsom 


310 


RIPPLING RUBY 


soon after eleven. And leaving him there to park 
the car amongst the scores that were arriving with 
every minute all four of us made for the stable, close 
by, where Rippling Ruby was quartered. 

Before we got close to the place, we saw that 
things had happened. In front, the group of private 
detectives which Lady Renardsmere had sent down 
to Manson Lodge, under Robindale, was gathered 
before Rippling Ruby’s special quarters. Between 
them and us, apparently on the verge of tears, stood 
Bradgett, talking to Medderfield, the jockey, who, 
very smart in mufti, appeared to be puzzled beyond 
expression: behind them, and actually in tears, 
lurked Rippling Ruby’s own particular boy, looking 
from one to the other as if in hopes of consolation. 
And a little way off, I saw Jifferdene, in the charac¬ 
ter of spectator, in the midst of several other men. 

Peggie made straight for Bradgett: at sight of 
her, the stable-boy in the rear let out an unmistaka¬ 
ble moan. 

“Now, Bradgett, what’s going on?” demand¬ 
ed Peggie, with a nod to Medderfield. “Out with 
it!” 

Bradgett shook his head. His clean-shaven face 
grew long and doleful. 

“I don’t know what’s going on, Miss!” he an¬ 
swered. “Nobody knows what’s going on! All I 
know is that Lady Renardsmere came up here at 
nine o’clock this morning with a couple of big fel¬ 
lows that stuck uncommon close to her, bundled me 


THE SADDLING PADDOCK 


311 


and my men out of the filly’s box, locked it up with 
her own hands, posted those chaps there in front of 
it, and told me that you weren’t her trainer any 
longer and that it was at our peril we tried to get 
near Rippling Ruby again! I—I think she must 
have gone mad, miss, or something—terrible temper 
she was in, anyway. What are we to do, miss?” 

“Where is Lady Renardsmere now?” asked 
Peggie. 

“Can’t say, miss,” replied Bradgett. “She and 
the two men went across there—towards Major 
Camperdale’s stables. She’s got the key of the 
filly’s box in her pocket, miss.” 

“What’s it all about, Miss Manson?” asked 
Medderfield naturally inquisitive. “Queer business, 
isn’t it?” 

“I can’t tell you what it’s about, Medderfield,” 
answered Peggie. “Lady Renardsmere-” 

The sniffing boy in the rear suddenly broke in- 

“Her ladyship’s coming backj!” he said. “I see 
her—there’s men with her.” 

We all turned in the direction indicated by the 
lad’s pointing finger. We saw Lady Renardsmere 
advancing across a corner of the heath just below 
us. Her two henchmen were at her elbows; behind 
her walked three men who were obviously stable- 
boys ; at their side strode a tall, soldierly-looking 
man whom I took to be Major Camperdale, familiar 
to me by repute as a trainer. And I began to see 
what was going to happen. 




312 


RIPPLING RUBY 


“Come away, Peggie!” I whispered. “No use 
stopping here! Leave her to do as she likes.” 

But Peggie remained immovable. 

“No!” she said. “Here I am, and here I stick! 
I’m going to see what happens.” 

The small procession came on. It had to pass 
close by us: Lady Renardsmere, marching ahead 
with a fixed stare on the stables, suddenly looked 
aside and caught sight of us. Her eyes gleamed with 
anger and she shook a key at us. 

“Go away!” she cried. “Go away, every one of 
you! I’ve done with you, Peggie Manson—you’re 
my trainer no longer! I’ll have no disobedience 
from anybody I employ! Go every one of you away! 
—except you, Medderfield. You come with me— 
I’ve some orders for you.” 

She moved on, and Peyton nudged my elbow. 

“Move off!” he said. “Bring the two ladies 
further back. The old woman’s clean off it now! 
No use exasperating her. Come on!” 

I got Miss Hepple and Peggie to retreat. We 
moved some twenty yards away, Bradgett and the 
boy following us, and watched. Just what I had 
anticipated took place. Lady Renardsmere un¬ 
locked the box; her attendants went in; within a few 
minutes they brought Rippling Ruby out; escorted 
by her crazy owner, her bodyguard of detectives, 
and her new attendants, she was led away towards 
Camperdale’s place. Peggie’s face flushed crimson 
and then went white; Bradgett swore under his 


THE SADDLING PADDOCK 


313 


breath: the boy pulled out a highly-coloured hand¬ 
kerchief and sobbed into it. And Jifferdene, show¬ 
ing no consciousness of knowing us, strolled with his 
lieutenants after the favourite and her surround¬ 
ings. 

Up to then Medderfield had not moved. But now 
he looked round—at me. He gave me a flick of his 
left eyelid and I went up to him. 

“Tile gone loose, Mr. Cranage?” he asked, nod¬ 
ding towards Lady Renardsmere. 

“Lady Renardsmere and Miss Manson have had 
a difference, Medderfield,” I said. “Lady Renards¬ 
mere is one of those women who won’t be thwarted. 
But—all that’s no reason why you shouldn’t ride 
Rippling Ruby this afternoon, is it?” 

“Oh, I’m going to ride her, Mr. Cranage!” he 
said, with decision. “Between you and me, her 
ladyship’s promised me five thousand pounds if we 
win. But—hard lines on Miss Manson, sir! The 
credit’s hers—and I’m damned if I understand this 
morning’s business, unless, as I say, there’s a tile 
loose. However, business is business! And so I’ll 
go and see what her ladyship wants. See you in the 
saddling paddock later, no doubt.” 

He went off in the direction of Camperdale’s 
stables, and I returned to Peggie and the others. 
Peggie appeared to have been struck dumb; she 
stood, very pale and still, watching the disappear¬ 
ance of the little procession around the filly: it was 
not until it had vanished that she seemed to show 


814 


RIPPLING RUBY 


consciousness of anything else. Miss Hepple laid a 
hand on her arm at last. 

“Peggie!” she said. “Would you like to go 
home?” 

Peggie’s face suddenly regained its colour and her 
eyes flashed—dangerously. She turned on Miss 
Hepple with a defiant face. 

“Home!” she exclaimed. “Home ? I’ll be damned 
if I would! No!—I’ll see it out! After all—I 
trained her!” 

We got her to come away with us; we even got 
her to eat some lunch. The time passed; we tried to 
get interested in the vast crowds; in the first two 
races; it was all no good: all we wanted was . . . 
but we all knew what that was. And at last we were 
in the saddling paddock, four units amongst a crowd 
of men and women anxious to see the favourite. 
That something strange had happened had already 
leaked out. I heard whispers, dropped hints. The 
excitement grew as the time drew near . . . 

And at last out she came, and folk pressed near 
to see her ... a thing of living fire and life, trained 
to the last degree of readiness and perfection. And 
round the beautiful arched neck, securely buckled, 
was the belt of bright green leather, and the 
accursed ruby! 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE CHINAMAN WINS 

We stood together, Miss Hepple, Peggie, Peyton 
and I—shut out, not by distance but by Lady 
Renardsmere’s temper and caprice, from the beauti¬ 
ful creature in which we were all, and Peggie espe¬ 
cially, so deeply interested. She, unconscious of all 
that concerned her, stood in the centre of a group 
made up of her new attendants, the watchful body¬ 
guard, Lady Renardsmere and Medderfield. Lady 
Renardsmere, with a jealous hand on the filly’s neck, 
was talking earnestly to the jockey. And all round 
them and us were onlookers, men and women well 
known in the racing world, eager and curious to see 
the favourite, but kept off her by the zealous offices 
of the men guarding her. Already there was an at¬ 
mosphere of mystery around Rippling Ruby; 
rumours had got about, and men were eyeing Lady 
Renardsmere and Peggie with speculative, inquisi¬ 
tive eyes. An elderly man suddenly turned on 
Peggie. 

“Thought you trained for Lady Renardsmere, 
Miss Manson?” he said. “Aren’t you responsible for 
that bit of perfection?” 

“I was till last night, Captain Marsham,” 
315 



316 


RIPPLING RUBY 


answered Peggie, quietly. “Lady Renardsmere has 
taken her out of my hands.” 

“Good God!—what a queer thing to do!” ex¬ 
claimed Captain Marsham. “Never heard of such a 
thing in my life! Odd!” 

“Very!” assented Peggie, laconically. 

“Woman’s whim, I suppose,” continued the old 
gentleman, with a keen glance. “Eccentric woman, 
Lady Renardsmere, I believe? Um!—anyway, 
you’ll get the credit—with those who know. You 
expect her to win easily, I think?” 

Peggie looked round the paddock. There were 
other horses there—Jack Cade, Hedgesparrow, 
Flotsam, Roneo, and half-a-dozen outsiders. There 
were knots and groups of people about them, criti¬ 
cising, speculating . . . 

“There’s nothing here that can beat her,” she 
answered calmly. “There’s never been a starter for 
the Derby that was more likely to win, Captain 
Marsham. I’d put my last penny on her!” 

She turned from him to me and Peyton, draw¬ 
ing Miss Hepple with her. 

“Let’s get down by the rails, as nearly opposite 
the winning-post as we can,” she said. “I don’t 
want to see any more of this—but I want to see her 
win. And then—I’m going!” 

Peyton took Miss Hepple from her and went 
ahead. I followed, at Peggie’s side. Suddenly as 
we pushed through the crowd, she slipped her hand 
in my arm, and whispered. 


THE CHINAMAN WINS 


317 


“Jim!” she said. “I’m done! This finishes it. I 
shall give up training after this—I’ll never train 
another horse! After all, as old Captain Marsham 
said, I shall get the credit of Rippling Ruby’s suc¬ 
cess. If—if she wins !” 

“You’re certain that she’ll win, Peggie,” I said. 
“You know you are. So’s everybody! Good Lord! 
—you can’t get money on her now except at 

_5? 

“I know—I know!” she answered hurriedly. “But 
I’m depressed—I’ve got a queer black feeling as if 
something was going to happen!” 

“Nerves!” I said. “You’re upset by last night’s 
and this morning’s doings—and no wonder. But 

_5? 

“That beastly thing round her neck!” she inter¬ 
rupted. “Jim!—suppose—suppose the Chinaman’s 
there—and—and he sees the Burma Ruby?” 

In the excitement of the moment I had forgotten 
the Chinaman. I glanced about me, involuntarily, 
right and left. It was difficult to conceive of any 
Oriental being able to lurk unobserved amongst that 
crowd of fashionable men and women. 

“I don’t see what the Chinaman could do—here,” 
I said. “You saw that Rippling Ruby’s being 
guarded as carefully as ever right up to the last 
moment. And didn’t you notice that Jifferdene and 
some of his men were close by her and Lady Renards- 
mere, though of course Lady Renardsmere doesn’t 
know them from any other racegoers? I can’t see 




318 


RIPPLING RUBY 


how the Chinaman, or any of his accomplices, if he 
has any can get at either horse or owner.” 

“I care nothing as to what happens, or might 
happen, to Lady Renardsmere,” she said. “She’d 
have brought it all on herself by buying that vile 
thing! But the filly . . 

“What can happen to her?” I interrupted. “She’s 
so guarded now that a fly couldn’t settle on her 
unobserved. In a few minutes I suppose, she’ll be 
out and going down to the starting-gate. Once 
Medderfield’s in the saddle and on his way . . .” 

“I wish it was over, all the same!” she broke in. 
“I’m anxious, Jim . . . anxious!” 

“There’s not much anxiety amongst Rippling 
Ruby’s backers, Peggie,” I said, trying to cheer 
her. “Keep your ears open.” 

And, indeed, judging by the scraps of conversa¬ 
tion that one caught on all sides, you quickly picked 
up two impressions—the first, that everybody looked 
on the result of the Derby as a foregone conclusion; 
the second, that, everybody for the last two months 
had been piling money on Lady Renardsmere’s filly. 
Peyton, steering Peggie into a place close by the 
rails next to Miss Hepple, turned to me with a 
significant look. 

“Seems like as if everybody around here regards 
this event as a sort of procession in which Rippling 
Ruby’s to come ahead with all the rest meekly fol¬ 
lowing!” he observed drily. “I’ve heard six differ¬ 
ent men say there’s only one horse in it, and that 


THE CHINAMAN WINS 


319 


the rest might as well stop in their stables ! Say!— 
I guess Miss Manson’s taking it badly?” 

“Very!” said I. “I wish it was all over.” 

“Well,” he remarked. “I see no danger now. 
There’s nothing to do but bring her out and let 
her run. Now what’s the etiquette of this historic 
event? Supposing Rippling Ruby wins?—is it the 
proper thing for her owner to go out on the track 
there and lead her in?” 

“It is!” said I. “A very proud moment—for the 
owner.” 

“Will Lady Renardsmere do that?” he asked. 

“If I know anything about her, Lady Renards¬ 
mere assuredly will,” I answered. “Nobody more 
readily—mad or sane!” 

He gave me a look and drew me a little aside. 

“That’ll be the dangerous moment!” he said. “I 
reckon there’ll be a crush all round horse and owner. 
Then will come the Chinaman’s opportunity!” 

“You think he’s about, Peyton?” I said, glancing 
around. 

“Sure!” he asserted firmly. “On the spot—some¬ 
where. And if he sees that ruby—there’ll be de¬ 
velopments. He’ll go for it—somehow!” 

“He can do what he likes—when the race is over,” 
I said. “But—I don’t see how he can get at any¬ 
thing or anybody before.” 

“It’ll be when I say,” declared Peyton. “And—I 
see no need to warn Lady Renardsmere. But— 
hallo, the horses are coming out!” 


320 


RIPPLING RUBY 


The horses came out in the order of the card— 
I took no particular notice of any of them except 
of Jack Cade, a great, raking brown colt, and of 
Hedgesparrow, a somewhat lightly built, graceful 
chestnut filly. Nor did anyone else—everybody’s 
eyes and attentions were for Rippling Ruby, who 
merged into full view halfway down the lot, to be 
greeted with a roar from the crowd on the opposite 
side of the course. 

She looked as well-behaved as she was well-bred, 
and murmurs of admiration sounded on all sides of 
us. But a sharp-eyed man close by me suddenly 
spoke—loudly. 

“What’s that strip of bright green the filly’s 
got round her neck, and the shining thing set in 
it?” he exclaimed. “What damned nonsense is 
that ?” 

Another man half turned and looked at the 
speaker, quietly and significantly. 

“Mascot!” he said laconically. “Have you never 
heard of old Lady Renardsmere’s superstitious pas¬ 
sion for precious stones? That’s her way, evidently, 
of ensuring good luck!” 

“More likely to ensure bad luck!” declared the 
other peevishly. “Decking out a horse as fools do 
a motor-car! Mascot be damned—ridiculous! 
Never saw an English race-horse with such a thing 
on in my time!—pretty long time too, now, begad!” 

“Don’t suppose it’ll make any difference, one way 
or another,” said the second speaker, laconically. 


THE CHINAMAN WINS 


321 


“She’s about as dead sure to win as she can be— 
they’re wanting seven to two on, now.” 

The parade went through and one by one the 
horses got down to the starting-gate. We could 
see the jockeys’ caps moving about like bits of 
coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. Peyton, a head 
taller than myself, turned to me with a question. 

“How’ll we identify our little lady as she comes 
round and along?” he asked. “Even through these 
glasses, it’s a bit difficult to make out which is 
which.” 

“Look for a bright green cap,” I said. “Lady 
Renardsmere’s colours are bright green cap and 
jacket, with a band of orange from the right 
shoulder to the left hip. Look for the cap! There’s 
no other light coloured cap that I can see. Keep 
your eye-” 

“ They're off!” 

The sudden mighty roar from the crowd made Pey¬ 
ton jump, and I saw his cheeks flush with eagerness 
and excitement. Towering above the rest of us he 
could see more than we could, and following the bob¬ 
bing caps as the horses swept forward over the high 
ground at the far side of the course, he began to 
murmur information. 

“I can see the light cap—it’s right in the middle 
of ’em! There’s a dark cap in front—well in front. 
Who’s that?” he asked. 

“Hanged if I know!” said I. “Never mind what’s 
in front now!—it’s what’ll be in front when they 



322 


RIPPLING RUBY 


get here. Watch ’em as they begin to come 
round!” 

Than I looked at Peggie. Close to the rails, and 
almost opposite the winning-post, she was staring 
straight in front of her—at nothing. And I edged 
closer ta her and put my hand through her arm, 
careless of how the horses were running. Another 
couple of minutes . . . 

“Can’t see ’em now, much,” muttered Peyton, in 
my rear. “They’ve sort of dropped down. The 
light cap was about the same . . 

A sudden vast roar on our left burst out as the 
close-packed mass swept round Tattenham Corner 
and came into full view of the eager multitude on the 
stand side of the course—a roar that began and con¬ 
tinued, gathering volume. And for a second I for¬ 
got Peggie and her white face and burning eyes. 

“Look now, Peyton!” I cried. “Look closely!” 

“They’re mixed up!” he answered. “Close packed 
—now—yes, by Gad, I see the light cap coming out! 
-—coming out!—she’s in front!” 

The great crowd saw too, and the roar deepened 
and spread. A big man, taller than Peyton, sud¬ 
denly took his field-glasses from his eyes, and 
laughed. 

“She’s lengths ahead now, by Gad!” he said with 
a snap of his lips. “Lengths! And they aren’t the 
distance! She’ll win in a common canter!” 

The roaring of the crowd began to be mingled 
with laughter—the laughter that comes from folk 


THE CHINAMAN WINS 


323 


who see happening exactly what they want to hap¬ 
pen. It was like one great Homeric shout, from the 
big packed stands, the paddocks and rings, the seeth¬ 
ing multitudes on either side the course. I stretched 
myself to full height and looked. Rippling Ruby 
at the distance was, so far as I could judge, six 
lengths in front of Jack Cade, and still coming 
along like a meteor. All over but the shouting!— 
and the shouting had begun and was increasing in 
volume with every stride the filly took. 

“Peggie!” I said. “Peggie! . . . she’s done it 

55 

It was in that very second—it must have been as 
I spoke that last triumphant word—that the infer¬ 
nal thing happened. Rippling Ruby was then some 
thirty or forty yards from the winning-post, lengths 
in front of Jack Cade, who, however, was coming on 
in great style in her rear, though far too late to 
overhaul her; just behind him was Hedgesparrow, 
with Flotsam and a couple of outsiders at her heels; 
the rest of the field was tailing off. 

How the thing was done no witness or bystander 
was ever able to tell clearly—but suddenly from 
out the close-packed crowd on the lower side of the 
course an object which, said such as saw it, looked 
like a cricket-ball, was flung in front of the filly. 
There was a blinding flash, a deepening roar . . , 
and Rippling Ruby went down as if shot through 
the heart, quivered, lay still, while Medderfield, 
thrown headlong, staggered on to his knees and then 


324 


RIPPLING RUBY 


collapsed in a motionless heap. And over Rippling 
Ruby fell Jack Cade, and over him Hedgesparrow, 
and Flotsam, steered wide of the struggling mass, 
went on and passed the post . . . 

The next thing that I knew was that Peyton and 
I, fighting like tigers, were in the middle of a howl¬ 
ing and shouting mob, forcing our way to the filly’s 
side. The crowds from either side had surged on to 
the course—we were mixed up with them and with 
the police—for some minutes the whole thing was 
hell. I saw men that I recognised, also fighting like 
demons to get near or to restore order; Jifferdene 
•— Camperdale — Bradgett — detectives — stable- 
boys. And all round us some men were cursing, and 
some were speechless with rage, and some were hold¬ 
ing blood-stained handkerchiefs to their cheeks, and 
here and there a man lay dead, and in the clearer 
spaces some were running blindly about with 
stretched fingers, as if to clutch the miscreant . . . 

We fought our way to the filly at last. She was 
dead as a stone, and the bright green belt and the 
gold-set ruby had vanished. And Peyton laid a 
sore-shaking hand on my arm. 

“The Chinaman’s won, Cranage!” he whispered. 
“Now . . . the girl! Go back to her!” 

I went back, still fighting my way yard by yard, 
to Peggie. She had heard by then, and without a 
word to her, I took her arm and led her away, out of 
the paddock, across the course, and, in silence, 
across a quiet stretch of the down-land beyond. 


THE CHINAMAN WINS 


325 


There was a lane, shaded, unfrequented, opening off 
that, and we turned into it, and I put my arm round 
her. She burst into welcome tears at the touch of 
my hand . . . and it was in the midst of these 
tears that we kissed each other for the first time. 


THE END 

























J 


















THe 

Charing Cross 
Mystery 

By J. S. FletcHer 

“The Charing Cross Mystery” possesses all the 
excellent qualities which have made the author 
the outstanding writer of today in the field of 
mystery stories. Unlike most of his contempo¬ 
raries who attempt to write novels of the same 
type, Mr. Fletcher goes beyond mere skill in plot¬ 
making and creates living characters in whose 
adventures the reader can actually believe. His 
stories are unfailingly interesting; one thrilling 
incident follows another in rapid succession, but 
logically and satisfactorily. The Boston Evening 
Transcript says, “ Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot, 
and he never goes beyond the bounds of reason 
in its procedure and development. He, moreover, 
can write the English language as a vital means 
to the end both of narrative and description, and 
he never fails to show that he is its master. It is 
therefore a pleasure to read his stories, not merely 
for their entertaining qualities, but also for the 
agreeable appeal of their manner and their style.” 


New YorK 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


London 



Fighting Blood 

By 

H. C. Witwer 

If Gale Galen had stopped to remember that he 
was only a soda clerk he would probably have been 
running yet, but instead he laid down his bar-rag 
and knocked out the second best welterweight in 
the game. The welter had been passing out a few 
unpleasant remarks. If Gale had been an ordinary 
sort he would have stuck to the ring after he had 
proved he could fight—instead of heading up the 
road labeled Education. He was a mighty fine boy, 
there’s no doubt of that; but if it had not been for 
Judy Wilcox it is doubtful if he would have done 
any of the really fine things which set him apart 
from the ordinary run of fighters. Fighting Blood is 
a wonderful story—as true to romance as it is to the 
ring. The author knows fighters backwards and 
forward. When they fight, they fight; they don’t do 
gymnastics with boxing gloves. You get the glare 
of the big white light, the dripping bodies and 
labored breathing, stale smoke, a thud on the 
jaw—and then on the canvas. It’s Witwer. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 




The 

Sign of the Serpent 

By 

John Goodwin 

Do not begin The Sign of the Serpent 
unless you have time to see it through. 
It tells of a missing heir, a kidnapping, 
and a series of thrilling incidents on the 
sea-going yacht Windflower, Here are 
romance and adventure of the good old- 
fashioned kind,—not written for lovers of 
realism, but for those who still have a 
warm spot in their hearts for Treasure 
Island, 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 




The Luck of the Kid 


Ridgwell Cullum 

Author of “ The Heart of Unaga,” 

** The Man in the Twilight,” etc. 

This new Cullum novel is a tale of pioneer life 
on the Yukon-Alaska frontier; it has all the 
author’s familiar qualities — strength of story, 
vividness of description, rapidity of action, and 
sure development of character. 

Bill Wilder, the Canadian gold-king, is one of 
Cullum’s finest creations, and the reader will 
follow him breathlessly in his adventures with 
the fur trappers and gold prospectors, and in his 
search for “ the lost white girl,” who proves to 
be “The Kid.” The story of the English 
missionary who loses his life on the gold trail, 
and the Indian servant who lives only to avenge 
his death, is a thrilling one, which gains in 
interest on every page. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York lit: 714 * London 


































































































































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